15 months – of pain.
15 months – of sorrow.
Of loneliness.
Of horror.
I was just a child then!
Barely even 10.
To separate a little girl from her family,
Her lifeline.
To force her to live over a year without a mother.
Over a year without a father.
Not even aloud to see her baby brother.
Living in a glass house,
A museum.
Staying with those distant relatives,
The ones you don’t really know.
The ones who shut off all emotions,
Like cold, metallic robots.
I hear no beating hearts behind these cold, hard chests.
“Only 4 months” I was told.
4 months, and then I’d be free.
4 turned to 6.
6 became a 12,
Then 15.
It was a year and 3 months before I could leave that place.
Too long.
It was far too long.
When my cell door was finally opened,
And my chains unbound,
I gladly left that hell I had to call home.
I had hoped for a happy reunion,
A joyous reunion.
But wasted is what those hopes had become.
To this very day,
I can recall what they said.
“A stranger” they called me.
I was no longer the care-free child that they had once known.
I had matured.
But what would you expect from someone who was forced to grow up,
Forced to learn to take care of herself practically overnight?
If you were me,
What would you do?
Would you sit there and take the abuse?
Would you be content in your mal-nurtured state?
Or would you fight back?
Would you strive to survive?
Would you do what I did,
And give up your childhood in order to live life at all?
I missed out on a lot,
But at least I didn’t miss out on living.