When Childhood Ends

She took the bus quite late, around 8:00 o’clock in the evening. She could have gone earlier, but there was some class officers meeting and those always take longer than necessary.  It was Friday. If everything goes the way it supposed to be, she will be at her place around midnight.

She still was wearing her school uniform loose fitting white blouse with a big green bow that looked like a dead butterfly over long beige skirt and the usual black sensible Mary Jane shoes. She didn’t have time to change. She had to hurry home.

When the conductor asked for her school ID, she handed it to him without comment. Not even when he sat next to her. There were only few passengers; one of those was a 9 years old boy who kept looking at her. Guess it would be a quiet four hour drive.

She didn’t know what happened. All she could remember was: when the bus reached the terminal and the conductor stepped out with the boy, she went with them. The place was dark and as alien to her as the people she was with. But it seemed didn’t matter. Nothing matters. Not even her(self.)

At 4:00 a.m. she gathered her clothes and slowly put them on. She glanced at the strange man on the bed. He was sleeping peacefully and seemed oblivious of the mess around him. There was so much blood! She didn’t remember having to feel pain. Nothing. She stepped over the sleeping boy on the floor. How did it happen? Why? She opened the door and slipped out into the dark alley. She didn’t dare to close it for the fear of making sound. She wondered where she was.

She found a tricycle and boarded. Looked back at the motel for a brief second and told the driver to go. Then for no apparent reason, she started crying. She cried all the way home…


6 thoughts on “When Childhood Ends”

      1. No need. I just saw myself in your story and your words. I feel so healed by reading them. Even though they describe horrors. There is healing in bearing witness. I think it must go hand in hand with bearing the soul. Big hug.


      2. You are so not alone. AND, you are doing the work of digging, revisiting, experiencing, describing, translating, and expressing, that MILLIONS of people cannot do. I believe we write about our own experiences, but we speak for a world of silent voices.


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