A Source of the Hornets

You likely don’t remember my name.

But I remember yours. I’ve always remembered yours.

I remember the bricks of the fireplace behind you in this photo, the gold fire poker that was always there to trip over, and the way the concrete hearth felt when it scraped the palms of my hands. I remember the weight of your movement, the way you would quiet me when your mother approached, and the way your fingers would rip and bite into my wrists.

I remember. And I know that, to this day, I still have nightmares about what you’ve done. Sometimes, I want to ask your sister, my childhood best friend, if she remembers too. I never have before. But someday, maybe I will ask.

And maybe, someday, I’ll write to you and tell you how much damage you did to a little girl that didn’t bring any harm to you. Maybe I could tell you how much respect for her grown-up self was lost, because of you. Maybe, I could tell you how much you make her question her self-worth and personality almost every day. Maybe I could tell you how much you anger and sicken the only person in her life who knows who you are and what you’ve done. Maybe, I could tell you how badly he wanted to hurt you. Maybe I could tell you that now, she’d let him, if he still felt enough to want to. Maybe, I could tell you that she thinks you don’t deserve that baby in your arms. Maybe I could tell you she wants to take it away from you and see your face when she gives it to someone who knows what it means to be human. Maybe I could tell you she’s afraid of you. Maybe I could tell you that she hates you.

And maybe, I won’t.

Someday, I will see you. Maybe, your God will speak up for you again.

Maybe he won’t.

Remember that little girl?

... Hi.