The Story of a Mime Girl

We are girlfriends, mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, we are women. We look like any other woman in your life that you care about. We gave birth to you. We gave birth to Jesus, Mohammad, Abraham Lincoln, Triple H, or any other idol of yours. We cook for you. We take care of your house, your parents and family. We take care of your child. We work, we earn. We compromise with your stupid ideas for yourself to keep you happy. We listen to you when you have something to talk about. We secretly give you ideas to lead you to your success. Don’t deny it because of your male ego. Half of your ideas do come from us. You have failed to give us our rights as equal as yours. But we still live with it. Haven’t you had enough?



Remember the last time you saw us on TV and the newspaper? Then again, why would you remember us anyways? They don’t let you see our faces. But you do know what happened to us, right? You raped us. Your tied us down, battered us, beat us, molested us, and killed us. Is this is our fate? One out of every four women is a victim of your little idea of fun.



Tell me, why do you change the channel when they tell you of our ill fates? Why do you skip the column in the newspaper? And why don’t you let your children know about this?



Do you know I was a victim when I was just 8 years old? Don’t be surprised. Only 75% of women are raped under age 18 years in which 37% were 11 or younger.

.

Was I drunk? Did I do this on purpose? Did I even ask for sex? Hell, no! I didn’t even know what sex was all about! Momma did tell me to avoid strangers. And believe me I did. She just forgot to mention I should stay away from my family members too, including father figures, brothers, cousins and uncles and every single man on earth! All I knew back then were school, my friends, my happy little family, my playtime and all the innocent mischief I was always planning to do. But then after one sunny morning, everything in my life was gone. I wasn’t happy anymore. You crushed my soul into pieces. You took my life in your hands and you threw it away. And all I knew after that were years of frustration, confusion and fear. I wanted to tear my skin apart, change skins like a snake. I loathed myself. Loathed the places you touched me.



Why me? This one question haunted me for years. What did I ever do to you? I thought of you as my father. I have treated you as one. I was happy whenever you came home. I talked hours and hours with you. Yes I loved you! Did you know all these? Did it cross your mind when you opened up my shirt and put your filthy hands all over me? Remember what you said? You said it was a game. It’s a fun game I would like too if you keep on doing it. I’ll tell you what. I never thought it was even the tiniest bit fun. Fun is when you laugh, not cry your heart out.



Yet you kept on doing it. You weren’t satisfied. You had to do it again and again. How could you?



Should I tell mom? Will she be mad at me for going near him? Even if I do tell her, what would I say? That he touches me? He did touch me before all this time, just in a different way. He did hold my hand, kiss my forehead and all that when my mom was watching. Then what do I say? That the way he was touching me nowadays was not good? I didn’t know if it was okay with other people when they play this “fun game”. All I knew was this didn’t feel right.



And days after days I became more and more introverted. Even the sound of a doorbell sent shivers through me. I was even scared every time my own father gave me a goodnight kiss. I couldn’t cry. I walked around you with a lump in my throat. All this happened when I was just 10. When people expected me to have uncountable friends, I punched a guy in the nose because the poor guy held my hand and asked me to play in the school yard.



By 18, I knew what you had done to me and why. Finally, I could gather the courage to tell someone. And to my surprise, I came to know that I was not alone. You already did it to countless people. And the worst part is, like me, they thought it was just them. And they kept it to themselves, afraid that no one would believe them.



I swore revenge. And who was the first person I thought of running to when I needed something? My parents, right? Years of trust and love they gave finally built up my courage to tell them how I felt, how it was. I still remember when I was telling them the story. I choked on words. I was so angry that I forgot how to breathe. I asked them to do something about this issue because when I was a kid my mother told me one day “I would do anything for you, anything to keep you happy, till the day I die. You are my only priority.” Mom had said these things just happen. It happened to almost every woman she knows.



Ma, if it was my daughter, and she felt like this I would have ripped the man into pieces and presented each piece of him, to keep as a souvenir, to all the women he had laid his hands on.



I am 20 years old. I still am disturbed, self –destructive, suicidal and sensitive. I still haven’t gotten my revenge. I still am expecting my parents will do something about it.



But I know I will. Don’t think I’m weak. My loathing and anger and pain are enough to give you hell. I will kill you one day. And you know who you are.