Mary Grant

Mary. You were such a child, a wee imp of a sweetie.
Seen you around, seen you with my sister. Quiet
and to your self, not to brass not too shy. Why did
you hide that much of your self?

We were all around you, all feeling the same as you
were, scared and terrified of others knowing, seeing
our thoughts that we were bad or dirty.

Each knew that it wasn't them that would be disgraced,
it wasn't them that would be asked.

Why did you do it or let it happen?

As if you had a choice, as if you could say no, as if you
could walk out and go somewhere else to prevent it.

Our mothers didn't believe what we told them, they
choose to listen to the truths they wanted to see
and hear.

When did they lose faith in each of us, why would they
not believe their own, the one that they them self, had
taught to be truthful, the face that they could read
miles away?

It all came in a flash to me, seeing you laying there on
the dark cold street, with you convulsing. Spitting out
chunks of your insides as the crowd stood there saying
all the things they suspected your father had physically
done to you.

The whispers of truths and lies, of gory actions your
dad delighted in doing to you every day after school.

Why didn't any of them tell somebody that could stop
it or prevent him from doing any more?

Mary, as you laid there, it was as if my life was flashing
in front of me. The years before that my broken body
laid in the street, just after telling my mother and aunt
that he was touching me there.

Both asked me, who is he,

my reply to them, "daddy",

that couldn't be child, your just saying that. While
the both of them examine me while still bathing,
only none of us could know that he was on the
other side of that bathroom door, listening.

It wasn't long after that my body laid with a
cracked open head from getting struck from some
drunken driver. A driver that didn't get charged
as daddy didn't want that, he also didn't want
him to have to pay through his insurance for what
happen, when my 18th B-Day came.

The shock of witnessing this action of your demise
has left thousands of questions in my mind. Only
Mary Grant, why was it your father that ran you
down with his vehicle right in front of your home?

Mary Grant your eleven years were so painful so
cruel and so final. Did your father run you over
because you grew up enough to say NO to him,
were you running away and that was the only way
he could control your actions?

He didn't even get out to see you after what he
had done, because all he knew was he did what
he set out to do. Annihilate your life!





Word Count: 508