How much time has passed since you were truly yourself? When was the last time you spoke without your words coming out fake and filtered? How long has it been since the last time you spoke honestly, only honestly?

Now, I will do just that, I will let my pen free, to write the story of my loss and pain, the story of a scared child who was forced to become mature.

Every night, I used to escape from my scary room to my parents bed, which to me was the safest place in the world. I would sleep peacefully, breathing their comforting and loving scents.

Until one dark night arrived, with its cruel wind ruining the braids of a twelve-year-old girl.

like any other day. I would wait with my mom, for my father to return from work, listening carefully to the sounds of his footsteps on the stairs, the jingle of the keys hanging from his pants as he approaches. I would feel my heart racing each time the sound drew nearer, and my excitement would grow. I would press my ear to the door and open it moments later to find him waiting, pretending to surprise me, opening his arms to embrace me with love, and giving me a share of his daily fatigue, a bag of my favorite snacks.

At dinner time, he sits next to me with a smile on his face, even though he is exhausted, and we both wait for whatever food my mom is making, knowing it’s going to be delicious. Then, as usual he heads to the kitchen to make his coffee before he goes, only to bed to find me sneaking to my safe place and falling asleep.

A deep sleep, interrupted hours later by the terrifying sound of sobbing that violently robbed me of my rosy dreams at 1 am. “MY HEART!” my father’s voice filled with pain, and my mother’s face filled with fear, she was putting her clothes on as fast as she could, looking for her phone like a lunatic to make many pointless calls with no answer from the other side. I could never forget that scene as long as I lived.

“Dad, what’s wrong? What is hurting you?” I asked, wiping away my tears that blurred my vision. Then I ran to the kitchen to get him a glass of water and poured it in the palms of my tiny hands. Wiped his face, maybe that would take away his pain.

He looked at me and said, “paint a kiss on my cheek,” with his deep voice that I long to hear again. I had no idea it was a farewell kiss, but maybe he did, as he tried to embrace my face with his eyelids while I wiped away the sweat of his pain with dozens of tissues.

“For God’s sake, help me, your brother is in pain; Get your sister and come quickly,” my mother said, collapsing helplessly on the edge of the bed.

My uncle and aunt arrived with an ambulance. The paramedics placed him on a stretcher, and my heroic father, lost all the power he had and surrendered to them easily. They headed to the only available hospital, the one my father despised, as it held painful memories within its white walls—a place where one of his friends had passed away.

At the door of the intensive care unit, we gathered, waiting for news that would ease our hearts and strengthen the frail thread of hope that was severed by the doctor’s cold face when he finally emerged, saying, “May his soul rest in peace.”

A painful numbness crept into my legs, throwing me on the ground. Anger, sadness, people’s voices disappeared, leaving me only hearing the sounds of screaming and panic.

“Oh God, help me,” I prayed, struggling to reach him. I couldn’t muster the strength to stand up, so I crawled to find him with his eyes closed, peacefully resting in a deep slumber. I gave him one last kiss.

In front of my mother’s tears and her sorrow, which froze the details of her beautiful face, and left her in a state of infinite shock. I knelt down and said, “Mommy, I won’t leave you. We’re alone now, and we’ll face the world together.” I don’t know where I found such words; perhaps it’s an authentic strength.

Funeral arrangements were made, and the preparations for the funeral took only a short time. If only happiness could be created so easily.

Last night, you were here, and now you’re away. How strange that only few hours have separated us and thrown us into distant worlds. Rest in peace, my guardian angel.

A month has passed since his death, and I began to feel vulnerable, with his absence exposing me to life and its dirtiness. During a visit to the family’s house, while I was standing in front of the mirror combing my hair, he entered the room and closed the door quietly. “What do you want?” I said. He didn’t respond but simply stretched his hand down my back and violently pushed me against the closet door. A lightning has burned my soul. My eyes froze, taking me back to a similar memory from roughly two years ago when I was ten.

He used to sit beside me, lecturing and enlightening me, talking in specific details about his various relationships with girls. He would back up his talk with gestures and expressions—to clarify things, as he assumed. I remained silent, terrified. Words died in my throat, while watching him violate me, wriggling like a predatory snake, moving brutally across my tiny, weak body. In my shock and fear, I wondered, “What’s happening? Is this some sort of game?” I gathered my strength and tried to push him away, shouting “Stay away from me,” with all breath that was filling me up since this “game” started.” Should I speak up? Tell someone? Who would believe a ten-year-old girl?

I entered the kitchen looking for a glass of cold water after a lot of outdoor play, only to be surprised by him standing behind me. Giving his ugly hands permission to be wrapped around my little waist, squeezing it, pressing me against his huge, fat body, asking, “Do you feel it?” “Feel what?”

Nothing but fear filled my heart, roaring inside, breaking it and shattering my spirit. Memories flooded back, overwhelming me… His features faded behind my tears—tears that were my only means of protest. Their saltiness weighed down my tongue and seeped into my being, uncaring of the dryness it caused. He continued to stare at me, stealing my sense of time. I felt as if I aged within minutes. Then he left the kitchen, leaving me paralyzed, both in action and speech.

No one knew. Life continued normally for everyone, amidst the ever-bleeding scars on my soul. “If they knew, if I told them, what would happen? The story would be buried to protect the family’s reputation, and the actions of this male—who was born with the belief that all actions were permissible for him—might be justified,” I thought to myself.

For how much longer?

Now, I’m a nineteen-year-old girl, trying to mend the wounds of the past, challenging them, striving to become a strong woman capable of confronting and living as she deserves. I dream constantly and work to make those dreams a reality, hoping to make her father in heaven proud, also her mother.

I don’t seek perfection, but I strive to find my happiness someday. Sharing this lightens some of the burdens of my days and might keep the bitterness of my experience away from the young girls and boys of this world.