Unnamed

I am a girl like everybody else. I play. I laugh. I cry. I am a girl. But unlike the other girls I knew, I was abused. I was a girl. I thought everyone was nice and good. I thought that hide and seek was just kids' play where you hide and someone else seeks. I was a girl. I thought that grown ups could be trusted. I thought that grown up men listened to their moms to protect the little ones, especially little girls. I was a girl. I thought that kisses and hugs should be shared only between fathers, mothers, sons and daughters. I thought that I am only allowed to kiss a stranger when I am all grown up. I was a girl... innocent, untainted, pure. But just as I said, I WAS a girl.

They snatched my innocence like a thief in the quiet of the night. They violated my young, immature body and trampled on my soul. My memory of those times are not as clear anymore but the mark they have left made a permanent residence in my being. No matter how much I tried to forget them, I cannot get rid of them. They are like a nightmare that you have once in a while; but mine is a nightmare every single time I open my eyes -- never ending. So when I thought I cannot take the pain anymore, I planned to end my worthless life.

I remember laughing at their jokes, being carried by them on their shoulders, sitting on their laps during gatherings, holding their hand in prayer, and sharing a bed with them when my parents would go out on a date night.

I was no more than eight or nine years old. I always played outside with the neighbors' kids. I had little to no care about my clothes. At the end of the day, I would always come home smelling of dirt, sun, and sweat. My uncle would tell me time and time again to come inside and take a bath. I would groan and say I don't know how to wash myself still because mother was so busy to teach me such trivial things. My uncle would then say that he would help me bathe. In my young, unadulterated mind my uncle is the kindest and sweetest man ever; going out of his way to help me wash up. Come to think of it. It's like a scene from a movie when the viewers would say how stupid the little girl is in thinking that her uncle is good and wouldn't do anything to hurt her. But really, it is so stupid and dumb of me to even think him, my uncle, to be an angel. One night, like all the other nights when I am so lazy to wash myself, my uncle helped me bathe. Maybe I was so foolish to notice it before but that night was different. My uncle whispered in my ear as he was touching the most sensitive part of a girl between her legs. His hand and fingers lingered longer.

"Do you like that?" My uncle whispered a little breathlessly in my ear. "It feels good, doesn't it?" He added. I looked at him and frowned. It does feel awkwardly nice so I nodded. The sensation it brought to my body was strange. My uncle smiled with lustful delight. Then he said, "Go finish up washing. I have a surprise for you in your room." Then he left. I love surprises so I finished up and hurriedly went to my room. I was so excited that I got disappointed when he didn't give me anything. He just told me to remove my towel and lie down on the bed, bend my legs up and open them wide. Stupid enough, I did what he told me to do; every single thing he told me to do. Then, my uncle said that I have to be quiet so that no one will hear us. He said that I am special so he is doing it only with me and nobody else. It was a gift that I would find delightful, he said. Then the moment he said that his head disappeared between my legs and the next thing I knew I was looking at the dark ceiling of my room. I have always loved my ceiling because of the neon colored stars that glow when I turn off the lights. But now... the tiny glowing stars seem to be looking at me with a devilish glow. The more I look at them, the more they made me feel like I am being engulfed in an endless darkness where there's no way out.

Of course, back then, I never knew that what happened in my room that night was only a prequel of what is yet to come.

Call me gullible, foolish, moron, stupid. Call me anything you want but before you do, try to put yourself in my place; empathize with me. My parents are, more or less, my financers. They are my personal and exclusive ATM; they only function to provide for my needs and sometimes wants, so to speak. I am basically nonexistent to them. They only remember me when they need my 'services'. You know, like a trophy that they could brag about during gatherings that they throw at 'home'? I always loved those gatherings because I could hug them, cuddle with them, and be sweet with them. Soon, after they have introduced me to everyone in the room, whose names I cannot remember, I am back to being a wallflower. You could call it heaven if your idea of heaven is being, technically, alone but having everything given to you with or without asking. Perhaps ìt is for this reason that I trust easily. Perhaps...

After that night, men so much older than me are drawn to me like a magnet. Each one posing as a friend at first; acting all kind and caring. Then, before I knew it, they have gone for the kill. Each one leaving me clueless the moment they've had their fill. Each time I ask myself and the Almighty why this is happening to me. Each time little voices in my head would answer me back. One voice would say it is not my fault and that I have to be strong and not give up. Another voice would say that it is their fault so I have to avenge myself, I have to hate everyone who have caused so much pain. Then a third voice would say that it is my fault so I have to punish myself. Each time I become more and more disgusted with myself and with my life and with everything around me.

This vicious cycle went on until my twelfth birthday. On that day, my so-called parents threw a party surprisingly for me. Before I blew my candles, my father asked me any gift that I want. Without a second thought, I said that I want us, our family, to transfer to a new house. My uncle was also there standing across the hall. I dared not look at him because I fear that he might tell my parents about what he did to me. I was so afraid that if my parents find out about it, they might disown me or hate me. Even if they rarely see me as their daughter, I still value them as my parents. If they find out about it, my parents might not look at me with an ounce of love anymore. I don't want them to look at me like I am some kind of shit that they need to get rid of. It is enough that I feel that way about myself; that everytime I look in the mirror I don't see a person worthy of anybody's respect. All I see is a face of a stranger that once looked like me. The stranger has deep scars on her face that bleeds unceasingly. The scars have made the stranger's face so contorted that it seems beyond recognition.

My father's reaction was one of surprise but without distaste. In short, my wish was granted. Anyway, they have always wanted to move closer to the city proper. Our move was like a big sigh of relief for me. For a while, I felt safe and free. It is as if someone has put an oxygen mask on my face and I can breathe again. I was happy.

I was happy but there was never a day nor a second that had gone by that I never thought of those nights and days when they would feed on my young and fragile body; poisoning my mind with vile and evil things. These thoughts slowly ate away my fleeting happiness and replaced it with dark and easy ways to end my suffering. Every single night, I would sit with my family in the dinner table and laugh at my dad's corny jokes and look at my mom's beautiful face. Every single night, when every living soul in our household has gone to sleep, I would go to the kitchen for the paring knife or to the stockroom for a rope and bring it to my bedroom. Every single night, I would imagine how I would kill myself. Every single night, I would literally cry myself to sleep. Every single night while I cry, I would ask the man above why I have to be the one to have to live in pain or to have this life or to even be alive. Why won't he just take my life while I sleep so everything will just end. No more pain. No more suffering. No more disgust. No more.

I endured this cycle alone until my last year in college. No one knew of what I have been through till the guidance counsellor called for me for my exit interview before I graduate. Long story short, she talked me out into telling her something that no one knew about me. By the end of our conversation, she told me that I have to tell my parents about what I have been through because only they can help me. She also said that I have to share the burden to the people I trust and care.

It was that same day when I mustered the courage to open up to my mother. She was about to follow my dad to their room when I called out to her. I asked if she has the time to help me with a difficult assignment. She smiled and nodded. We sat on my bed and I took a deep breath before I started my story. I didn't stop eventhough I can see my mom's face contort in agony over something she was not able to protect me from. As I was getting to the bottom of my story, my mom was already crying nonstop. In the end, she wiped her tears and smiled tenderly at me. She said she is so sorry for not being the mother she is supposed to be. She also said that she is proud of me for being such a strong person. She asked if she could tell my dad about it but I said no; it is enough that she knows. Starting that night with my mom, I slept soundly -- no crying, no planning a gruesome death, only a prayer or gratitude and forgiveness to the great guy above.

I still remember those days but only to remind me that I am stronger than I think I am and that my life was given not to be wasted but to be shared with others.