The Girl in the Baby Pink

All I could do was just sit there and cry. I couldn’t change it; help it, or anything for that matter. All I could do was sit there and catch the mascara stained teardrops that attempted to scar my cheeks. Or was I even wearing mascara? No; couldn’t have been.  Too young right? But I am.


Now obviously age doesn’t affect what you can do or what can happen to you. In this moment, in this place, that’s very obvious right? What isn’t right is the fact that I am catching tears that should never even fall. I am catching tears? I caught the tears. This is over with right? Oh God, I pray. This has to be over with.


She is still there; in that room, in my mind. She never left. She couldn’t leave. She never made the choice to be there in that place. I never made that choice. To put her and I in that room, in that place, at that time; together.


Those passing glances; always inquiring, “why are you here?” and, “well what’s wrong with you?” You couldn’t see it on me, but you could see it on her. Oh thank God; you couldn’t see it on me. Pity was the last thing I wanted, and shame was the only thing to have come from this.


Why is the door opening now? Why now? Right as I am falling to pieces on the disgusting toilet that occupies the second stall in that building; in that place where I was, where she was. Little did they know, whoever they were, that they were not only opening the door to the bathroom, but they were opening the door to my inner most fears and pains. Humiliation; because, “no girl, you’re not perfect,” the insecurities would mock me endlessly.


Did they mock her? That girl in that room; in that place, in that building, yes that building in which we never should have been.  I’d hope not. Oh God, I pray not. Surely she was stronger than I. She had to have been.


Been? Wait, isn’t that past tense? Oh God, please don’t let it be past tense. Let her be strong. Oh, I pray she is strong; much stronger than I at least. 


She doesn’t even know I exist. Yes, that girl in that baby pink outfit; in that room, in that place, yes that place in which we never should have been.  She does not know she is embroidered in my mind, like a stitch that could never be pulled out; unless of course you intend to unravel it all. All of what? All of my fears? My mind? My, myself?


She was just sitting there. She didn’t mean to scar me and mold me; to make me realize me for who I am. That weak, broken thing that I was; that I am.  So there she is, and there I am, in that room; in that cold, overly colorful room, in that place, yes that place in which we never should have been. Oh wait, there we were. Because this is over right? Oh God, I pray that this is over, right?


I wipe the tears from my eyes again; probably for the fifth time this year. Yes, this year; because don’t you know that this was ten year ago and today all at once. Don’t you know that every day you pass by broken children that have sat in that room, in that place; yes, that place in which we never should have been, that we never chose to be.


I was not wearing the mascara that day, but today I am. Today I chase away the mascara trails that attempt to scar my face. Today I relive this as if it is happening for the first time again. I see her there in that room; in that place, yes, that place in which we never should have been, but had to be.


I always find myself in that bathroom, a mere five yards from where she sat; yes that place she sat, that place that touched my heart and made the tears pour from my eyes.


She was just so young; so weak, so helpless. Oh God, I pray she is no longer quite so weak and helpless. It’s not fair, it’s just not fair! I whimpered that, I whimper that, endlessly in that stall in that place; yes, that place, that place that fear surrounds me and leaves me no place to hide. That stall, that small stall; why would I have ever thought that that stall would be a place where I could hide. After all- you cannot hide from your mind.


I pray she is okay now. I think I am okay now.





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