Dear Danie, You're No Longer Dear

TW: child abuse

Dear Danie,

I've crossed out the "Dear" because you're no longer dear to me. How could you be, after all you've done to me? I'm disgusted at the thought of you. I can't stand the sound of your voice. I can't stand the sight of your face. The pain that your rough, dirty hands brought to my face still lingers, like a ghost. The bruises, the welts, the cuts, that your worn, fake-diamond studded belt brought to my arms, my legs, my body, are still there, the cuts now scars that will never heal, the bruises mottling my body like shadows, the welts still raw and angry, like my soul, or at least what's left of it. You ripped my soul from me, leaving behind shredded pieces, jagged pieces that will never fully heal. You broke my trust for you, like you broke me. I thought I could count on you, to be there for me when Mom died. Instead, you used the money she left for me- ME- to fund your "Danie's Beer Fund". You used mine, because you already used yours up on beer and cigarettes. I wouldn't be surprised if some of that money was used to pay girls to love you. You could never pay me to love you. Not even a million dollars. Not after what you did to me. Mom would be so ashamed of you.

If Mom were here, none of this would have happened. I might be going to college right now, instead of laying in a bed in a child abuse rehab center. If Mom were here, you might be married and living in a mansion, the president of a big tech company, like you've always dreamed. Instead, you're running away from the cops, with what's left of my money. I bet that right now, you're buying yourself a 12-pack of Bud Light from some small, dirty, quiet gas station, and scrounging the ashtrays outside of it, looking desperately, searching for a cigarette that isn't too burnt, that isn't too used, because you don't want to spend my money on cigarettes, when you could use it for beer instead. Then, after you've had your smoke, you'll throw it away, not caring where it goes. It is, after all, too used to use it again. You did the same to me. You used me until I was no good, until I couldn't be used again. Then you threw me away, not caring where I went.

You used me, beat me, tore me apart, until I was as crumpled as the beer can you're probably crumpling up right now. Useless. Empty. Just another piece of trash to be thrown out, and taken to the dump. Except in my case, this rehab center is the dump. It's a dump for abused, neglected teens. Teens that don't have a sane, loving family member to take care of them. Teens that aren't worth anything to anybody anymore. Teens that seemed only good for beating up and abusing. Teens that only seemed good for some insane, drunken, foul person who sees them as objects used for their pleasure, for their ugly, dirty hands to touch, for their anger, for their ugly, dirty belts to lash, to beat, to whip. Teens like me. Teens who should be in college, living carefree, hanging out with their friends at the mall, or the coffee shop after a long, hard day at school. Teens who should be happy, and bold, and confident. Teens who shouldn't be scared all the time, scared that the next person to walk through the door is going to be their abuser. Teens who shouldn't flinch every time someone waves a hand, or touches their shoulder, even softly. Teens who shouldn't be trembling when someone shouts, even when it's coming from five doors down, from someone saying hello to someone else. Teens who shouldn't wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and hot tears, dreading to fall back asleep, afraid that they'll just slip back into the same nightmare, the nightmare they've been having for years. Teens who shouldn't be wetting the bed at eighteen years old like a baby. Teens who SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN ABUSED.

You might know how I feel. Remember how, when I was four, and you were twelve, on the brink of adolescence, the neighbor boys, who were almost men, would tease you, and bully you? Remember how I would always stand up to them, often getting knocked down from punches meant for you? Remember how you always cowered, always trembled, always woke up in a cold sweat, running into my room, where I, at age four, would comfort you, stroking your hair and whispering lullabies until you dropped off to sleep? Remember how brave I was then? Remember how I was never afraid to take a black eye here, a chipped tooth there, even a broken nose? Remember? REMEMBER? Maybe you don't, maybe you do. I don't know, and maybe I never will, just like I'll never know why I didn't stand up to you. Why I didn't tell anyone. Why I didn't ask someone for help. Why I didn't just pack up some belongings in a bag and head out, somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far away from you. I guess maybe I was scared that nobody would believe me. Maybe I was scared that everybody else would just beat me up like you did. Whatever my reason was, I might not ever know. All I know is that no matter my decision would have been, I would still have been angry at you. I'm not just angry at you for abusing me. I'm more angry at you for forgetting what you promised Mom before she died. You promised her that you would look after me, take care of me, so I would never be alone.

"I'll take care of her Mom," you said. "I promise." Ha! Look where we are now. Both alone, unless you've met up with some criminal buddies. Your mind is probably too flooded with drunken thoughts to think about promises, much less me. I despise you for that.

I wish that Dad hadn't left when I was young, hardly old enough to have many memories. Maybe if he hadn't gone and joined the army, he could have been there for both of us when Mom died. Maybe if he hadn't gotten killed, he could've been there to protect me from your anger over Mom's death. Maybe he could've helped you, because you really needed it. You still do. Maybe, if he were here right now, we would still be a family. Instead, I'm stuck here, and you're somewhere out there, still angry. Maybe you're scared, scared of what might happen when they catch you. Or maybe you're angry at Social Services for taking me away. Maybe you're even mad at yourself for hurting me, because when you hurt me, you hurt yourself, too. You might not have felt it, or maybe you did, but your anger overruled your heart and your reasoning. Remember those times when we used to be thick as thieves, always getting into mischief, sneaking cookies from the cooling racks, only to burn our little grubby fingers? Remember how we would run to Mom, crying, choking out words of "I scraped my knee" and "Mommy, kiss my boo-boo"? Remember how Mom would snuggle with us each night, and read us bedtime stories? Well, you might not, but I do. I think that's the part of you that hurt the most when you started hurting me. That's the part of me that hurt the most, too. More so than the all the bruises, welts, cuts, and slaps, because when your brother throws away his childhood, the happy childhood that he shared with his sister, he's throwing away her childhood, too. Our childhood was linked together. It used to be happy memories, but now, they're just sad ones, sad because of what you became, even after our happy childhood. But I don't want our adulthoods to be linked together, so I'm burning my ship, and cutting the ties. You, Danie, are my ship, and I'm cutting the ties that link us together.

You might never get this letter. I don't know where you are, I only know that the police are after you. I only know that they'll eventually catch up to you, because you're almost always drunk, and when you're drunk, you're never smart. I've seen you on TV a couple of times. They talk about you on the news a lot. In fact, updates about you are made almost everyday. Each day, the police get closer to finding you. I hope they get you soon, because when they finally do, I'll be able to finally sleep better at night, knowing that you're locked up, unable to somehow sneak into the rehab center, and take me away, to use and abuse again, now that my body is getting stronger and stronger everyday. When they get you, I'll send this letter, and until then, I'll keep it, and I'll write in my will that I want it burned when they cremate me. I hope they do cremate me, because then I can tell them in my will that I want my ashes to be scattered. I want my ashes to be scattered, so that I can finally be set free, so that I can finally find my soul.

Sincerely,

Saira Amala