Warning:

This piece contains descriptive discussions of childhood trauma, including references to child abuse, physical abuse, emotional and mental abuse, alcohol abuse, and the silencing of individuals seeking help. 

Reader discretion is advised, particularly for those who may find these topics sensitive or triggering.

Growing up with my great‑grandparents was wonderful. I used to spin in circles in their home with my arms wide open. My tiny fingers would make tiny slices through the air as I spun round and round, until I landed safely on warm carpeted floors. There was so much room to play and so many quiet corners to retreat to. I felt safe there, safe enough to be a child.

I often played with the toys they kept neatly organized in one corner of the den. There was a box of used Barbies, presumably some of my mother’s, and small dollhouses with no furniture that I absolutely loved. The Barbies never fit, but I still lined those little eight‑inch houses side by side and pretended.

There was also a tub; thinking back, it must have been a manila‑colored medical bin, filled with pennies. I would fish my hands through the coins and “swim” in them. The clanking sounds and cool textures brought me so much joy. I would build small towers and watch them tumble. 

Breakfast was usually eaten at the table, my great‑grandmother on my left and my great‑grandfather on my right. He would drink from a grey, speckled mug with the Lions International logo on it, a cup that looked like stone. He drank his coffee straight and black, a habit he formed while serving on his ship in the Navy. He spoke proudly of his background. He had lost a brother in the war but had several other siblings, only one of whom I ever met.

My great‑grandmother was the most angelic woman I have ever known. She had beautiful white hair she would perm and lightly color with lavender. Teenagers often commented on how “cool” her hair was, and honestly, it was. She spoke softly and wrote in the most beautiful calligraphy. Growing up, I envied her handwriting. My handwriting was ogrish and bold.

My great‑grandparents loved me, and I loved them deeply. I knew that if and when I lost them, I would likely lose all of myself. They were my single light in the dark.

I pause here, because for all the things they were; serviceman, great‑grandparents, grandparents, mother figures, father figures, friends, they also knew about the challenges I faced at home. They knew about the abuse. I was mostly silent throughout my childhood, but sometimes, especially when I was afraid to return home, I would express my fears to them. I would beg to stay, to not be sent back, and yet each time I still left.

Sometimes I played outside on their sizeable plot of land. One day, a girl moved in next door. We would talk through the fence, a mesh gate lined with 2x4s. She was friendly, about my age, with beautiful long blonde hair. We never visited each other’s homes, but we spent time talking. I can’t recall everything we discussed, but I imagine it was about animals and our interests. She loved horses, and they had stalls out back with two of them, if I recall correctly.

One day, she came to me looking disheveled and rushed. Her blond hair looked knotted on top with strands standing on end. She said she was leaving for a while. I was disappointed but understood that she was going back with her Father. Behind her, I heard angry growls from inside her house, the deep, masculine shouts of someone furious.

I watched her run toward the home, her feet kicking up small puddles of mud as she ran toward the front. The shouting grew louder. I saw a man in a dark cowboy hat and jeans, her father, I assumed. I couldn’t see him clearly, but I caught glimpses of an unkempt beard and a noticeable sway, the same unstable sway my own father had after downing a six‑pack.

My chest tightened. Beads of sweat formed. My heart raced. Somehow, without knowing how or why, I knew she was in danger. I wanted to call out encouragement, anything, but I froze.

I kept watching. Her father continued shouting at the house and at her. Who was in the house, I’ll never know because I did not see them. We were just children, but I could see the panic in her body language. She moved in ways that showed her mind was somewhere else, trying to flee. Her tiny feet shuffled back and forth as if she did not know where to go. My friend opened the vehicle door to climb inside. When he turned and pointed at her and then at the house, she darted back out of the car.

And then it happened.

As she closed the front passenger door, she stood before him, poised to go back inside for whatever he wanted her to get. Instead, I watched him forcefully kick her in the face with his cowboy boot. I remember the point of the boot lifting and connecting. I heard a sharp cry of pain. When she hit the ground, she made no sound at all.

The ground there wasn’t smooth pebbles, it was coarse gravel. She lay limp as he moved closer and continued kicking her over and over.

She did not cry. She did not make a sound. I knew she was unconscious.

I watched in horror. My eyes burned. I wanted to scream, to let him know someone was watching, someone cared, someone would stop him, but nothing came out.

My feet moved before my mind did. I sprinted back to the house to do something I could never do for myself. I grabbed the landline phone hanging just inside the kitchen. I called out for my great‑grandmother and frantically told her what I had seen: the girl next door, beaten by her father, unconscious on the gravel. She needed help, we needed to phone the police. 

My great‑grandmother, whom I loved and adored, looked at me and said, “That’s not our business,” and, “Pay no mind.” She took the phone from my hands and hung it up without dialing a single number.

I was muted by fear and disbelief. They would not protect her. They would not make the call. They were not who I thought they were.

I ran back to the door and swung it open.

The vehicle was gone.

The man and the girl were gone.

I stood there on the steps, staring out.

I never saw her again.

To that girl, wherever you are
I hope you found peace.
I hope you were able to get away.
I hope your life is now filled with joy and safety.
You did not deserve the beatings.
You deserved to be a child.

And I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.

Unhealed,

SIS