The Voice Of Her

TRIGGER WARNING: This article mentions sexual abuse and rape.

She was 7. Every day was a new adventure of watching new episodes of cartoons and alternating between which chocolates to eat. Until one day, the joy and laughter were overtaken by confusion and discomfort. He was a driver; her family had hired him. He gave them rides and took them places. Little did they know of his other nefarious intentions. He befriended the little girl. If only they knew he was grooming her. When he touched her, she had let him; she wasn’t talking to a stranger. She wasn’t eating something offered by a stranger. She wasn’t wandering off without telling her mother first. She kept quiet. She had never been told what was wrong and what wasn’t. He took advantage of her innocence and silence. Time passed and one day, he decided he’d do it. He raped her.

She didn’t know what was happening but one thing was for sure, she did not like it. Her mother told her to not speak ill of elders. She tried to put it into the words, the entire story. But she couldn’t. She did not have the words. Her mother said it would never happen again and it never did. She didn’t talk to him again and he didn’t touch her again. However, he stayed. A seven year old’s faith in her parents completely shattered that day. She was too stunned and little to comprehend what she was feeling. But keeping him employed did break something in her that day.

By the time she had turned 11, the driver quit years ago. Everything fell into place. A part of her felt uncomfortable but it was quite dormant. Around her, everyone loathed sex education classes. It was in these sex education classes she learned about consent; the touch of the right kind and the wrong kind. Fear struck. Memories resurfaced. It took her places; a dark seamless pit. She told her mother what exactly had happened all those years, that she had been raped. The conversation wasn’t easy, but keeping it to herself was eating her up on the inside. Her mother was furious of course; she cried. Her mother had said she’d never would have let him stay if she had known. In the flurry of emotions, she found herself in the middle of a maze of chaos and darkness.

It was summer which meant too much idle time; too much time to think. She despised boys. She wouldn’t go near them, wouldn’t touch what they had touched. She wouldn’t even go near her brother or father. She couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat. Her parents knew, but they got desperate sometimes. Out of frustration sometimes, they’d shout at her to get it together. As if that’d fix it. One session with a counselor was all she got. And it did nothing to help. At all. Things got better because of the distractions that took over again. Back to school, back to her friends. And slowly she forgot. She wasn’t healed, no, it was more of a temporary bandage that when ripped off, would bring expose her wounds and hurt her all over again. And it did come off.

But this time she was older. And overthinking was a constant presence in her life. She’d often think why her parents hadn’t protected her. Maybe, if her brother hadn’t been born, they’d notice and care more. She knew playing the blame game helped no one, but that didn’t stop her from doing so. She also hated herself for thinking the way she did. The scar was too deep; she was losing herself again. But she couldn’t tell her parents all that, no they’d feel guilty. It would hurt them. So, she held it all in, yet again. Until the day a crack appeared. She couldn’t breathe. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her thoughts were too loud, too overwhelming. Embarrassment. Humiliation. She did not have a shoulder to lean on when she desperately needed one, it was too much to hold in.

Not many do, but she had the courage to talk about it. She would heal. She cried into her mother’s arms and asked for help. Real, professional help. It happened to be one of the wisest decisions she’d ever made. And with time, things sure did change. At first, she was ashamed but realized it was he who should be ashamed. The memories haunted her at times but she learned to trust again. She understood it was alright to not shoulder all the trauma herself. Her loved ones shared the weight and they all powered through it together. Sometimes she’d be too wary of those around her, something that had been imbued in her but she also had people who looked out for her. The scar never completely faded but she was stronger. Stronger because she could now tell the difference. Braver because she learned to trust and let people in again. Fearless because she was unafraid to ask for help. The scar didn’t have to fade. It was a symbol that reminded her of all the bad but also the good in the world at the same time.

Written by: Khushi

Edited by: Baibhabi Hazra