Don't cry

Far from me to want to deceive anyone into thinking this is based on my life. This is fiction. This little girl exists in my head but represents all those children abused and hurt by adults. I wanted to speak out about it from the child's perspective.


Twisting a tuft of hair around my finger, I notice the harsh neon lights are making the burns on my forearm shine.

'Can you tell me more about Jimmy?' Another question. I don't want to answer, but have to, I know. I look down at my feet dangling, shifting my weight. The plastic chair is hard and uncomfortable.

'I remember the day he came to live with us. The doorbell rang. I thought it was the postman. I was wearing my sparkly hairband, the one Jimmy broke into a thousand pieces when I wouldn't put my shoes on. I opened the door. Mummy came running up behind me smiling. He looked friendly. He was holding a bunch of flowers for Mummy and Mr. Nibbles for me.' I pause, tightening my grip on the cuddly toy cat. I look up at the man in the white coat again. His eyes are very blue, like the sky on a summer's day.

'After things happened, he always gave me presents. He did the same with Mummy. He always said, "I'll never do it again." He lied.' I rub the scars on my arm.

'Sweetheart, it's ok if you need to cry. This is a hard time for you.'

I won't cry. Jimmy told me I wasn't allowed to cry. Babies cry. Cry baby, cry baby. His weight on my chest, his hand, the one with the gold ring, on my outstretched arm, the click of the lighter, the intense pain, my salty tears, his laugh ringing in my ears. Cry baby, cry baby.

'I think that's enough for today.' He's looking at his watch. 'Mrs McCarthy will be here soon. See you tomorrow.'

I slide off the chair, the skin of my legs catching on the plastic. Mr. Nibbles comes too.

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