Chapter 7
"So why are you here" she asked, sitting back upon her bed, her legs crossed at the ankle. What, does she have a questions-I-don't-want-to-answer radar system or something? I thought to myself, wincing. "I'm here for several reasons", I stalled. What information did I need from her? "I came to learn more about your past." I covered. I can't be your guardian angel and not know what made you the person you are.
" The person I am?" she repeated. I saw her eyes cloud over, and I knew she was deep in thought. Whatever had transpired in her past was going to be interesting if she had to think that hard about who and what she is. And the funny part is, I thought to myself, it's all a lie. She has no idea who she is.
I looked at her, and asked her to give me the highlights of her life thus far. She told me that she was a drama student, and that she had big plans about singing and acting in musicals, writing books of poetry, and drawing illustrations for children's books. "When I was younger," she said, "I used to live with my biological parents." I let her talk, but I knew the story behind why she no longer resided with them. From reading my trusty book, I knew that when she was just five years old, she was left outside in the stoop in the cold for a half an hour for bad behavior. It was cold, and the sun was setting, as a five year old sat on her front stoop, crying and wondering where to go now that "Mommy and Daddy didn't want me", as she put it. She grew up relatively normally, until she hit age nine. One night as she and her sister played with Barbie dolls, past their bedtime, they ignored repeated requests to be quiet and go to sleep. Her father came down the hall with his heavy construction worker issued steel-toed boots, and kicked open the door. Screaming obscenities, he frightened the girls, and Hope tried to get away from him and into her bed. …She wasn't fast enough.
He grabbed her by the nightgown and threw her against the closet door. Screaming and crying, as she crumpled to the floor, she only seemed to enrage him further, and so he kicked her fragile childish body, bruising her head, shoulders, back and legs, not to mention her stomach and bottom. As he stormed out, Rachel began to sob from under her covers where she had been hiding. But Hope lay gasping for air, sobbing, rolled tightly into a ball having crawled to the far corner of the room. She told her teacher the next day, and was sent to live with her grandfather. Rachel was sent to an aunt in Maine, and the two had not seen each other since that time.
Watching her face as she reiterated what I already knew showed me how much pain she had felt, and how much more quickly she'd had to grow up. Her eyes were colder than a young woman's should be. And she talked as if she were years older than just 17. "Without suffering, there exists no compassion, " I whispered to myself, trying to justify what had happened to her. But what do those who suffer have to say about that? I wondered.
She told me she was happy with her grandfather now, though he wasn't home all that much, and mostly slept. And just for good measure threw in how proud he was that she had continued to do well in school thus far. "But sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Rachel and I had just stuck it out. Maybe it would have been just that one incident. Maybe we could have been a happy family, all of us together." "Or, maybe Hope, it was in God's plan for you to come to your grandfather. I think perhaps he needs you more than Rachel or your parents do." "Maybe", she said. "I sure hope so. Because most of the time, I don't feel like helping anyone; I just feel lost." She looked out her window as rain began to drizzle down the panes, and I said a prayer for her soul. She had been a battered young woman. But she wasn't going to suffer anymore.
"So why are you here" she asked, sitting back upon her bed, her legs crossed at the ankle. What, does she have a questions-I-don't-want-to-answer radar system or something? I thought to myself, wincing. "I'm here for several reasons", I stalled. What information did I need from her? "I came to learn more about your past." I covered. I can't be your guardian angel and not know what made you the person you are.
" The person I am?" she repeated. I saw her eyes cloud over, and I knew she was deep in thought. Whatever had transpired in her past was going to be interesting if she had to think that hard about who and what she is. And the funny part is, I thought to myself, it's all a lie. She has no idea who she is.
I looked at her, and asked her to give me the highlights of her life thus far. She told me that she was a drama student, and that she had big plans about singing and acting in musicals, writing books of poetry, and drawing illustrations for children's books. "When I was younger," she said, "I used to live with my biological parents." I let her talk, but I knew the story behind why she no longer resided with them. From reading my trusty book, I knew that when she was just five years old, she was left outside in the stoop in the cold for a half an hour for bad behavior. It was cold, and the sun was setting, as a five year old sat on her front stoop, crying and wondering where to go now that "Mommy and Daddy didn't want me", as she put it. She grew up relatively normally, until she hit age nine. One night as she and her sister played with Barbie dolls, past their bedtime, they ignored repeated requests to be quiet and go to sleep. Her father came down the hall with his heavy construction worker issued steel-toed boots, and kicked open the door. Screaming obscenities, he frightened the girls, and Hope tried to get away from him and into her bed. …She wasn't fast enough.
He grabbed her by the nightgown and threw her against the closet door. Screaming and crying, as she crumpled to the floor, she only seemed to enrage him further, and so he kicked her fragile childish body, bruising her head, shoulders, back and legs, not to mention her stomach and bottom. As he stormed out, Rachel began to sob from under her covers where she had been hiding. But Hope lay gasping for air, sobbing, rolled tightly into a ball having crawled to the far corner of the room. She told her teacher the next day, and was sent to live with her grandfather. Rachel was sent to an aunt in Maine, and the two had not seen each other since that time.
Watching her face as she reiterated what I already knew showed me how much pain she had felt, and how much more quickly she'd had to grow up. Her eyes were colder than a young woman's should be. And she talked as if she were years older than just 17. "Without suffering, there exists no compassion, " I whispered to myself, trying to justify what had happened to her. But what do those who suffer have to say about that? I wondered.
She told me she was happy with her grandfather now, though he wasn't home all that much, and mostly slept. And just for good measure threw in how proud he was that she had continued to do well in school thus far. "But sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Rachel and I had just stuck it out. Maybe it would have been just that one incident. Maybe we could have been a happy family, all of us together." "Or, maybe Hope, it was in God's plan for you to come to your grandfather. I think perhaps he needs you more than Rachel or your parents do." "Maybe", she said. "I sure hope so. Because most of the time, I don't feel like helping anyone; I just feel lost." She looked out her window as rain began to drizzle down the panes, and I said a prayer for her soul. She had been a battered young woman. But she wasn't going to suffer anymore.