The Words Left Unsaid

Content warning: suicide, rape

"I was staring into the mirror. Looking at my long blonde hair. Looking at my hazel eyes. I looked like an innocent doe. My eyes looked so round and wondering. Then I looked down. I saw the cuts on my forearm. I looked back up into the mirror, and I saw my seemingly innocent eyes, and I began to yell, 'It wasn't your fault! You didn't deserve it!' Then I heard my mom banging on the locked door. She was yelling too, but I can't remember what she said. The next thing I do remember was my hand gushing blood, and glass scattered all around me. I was finally calm again, so I unlocked the bathroom door. My mom came in with tears running down her face. I looked up at her all bloody and distraught and I said, 'Mommy. I need help.' We sat, holding each other, crying, for about thirty minutes. My hand was not recovering whatsoever, so ultimately my mom drove me to the ER. I got some stitches," I lifted up my bandaged hand like it was a show-and-tell, "and that's how I ended up here."

The whole group was staring at my hand. Well, the whole group with the exception of Claire London. She was the group therapist and she was taking vigorous notes. She was about 5' 6", with a platinum blonde bob cut, and the most badass tattoos I've ever seen. It was only my third day at the ward, and my first group therapy session, but I could already tell I'd get along with Claire.

"Now, Frances, I'd like to emphasize that you only have to share what you feel comfortable sharing with us," Claire began, "But, what exactly sparked this episode for you?"

"Umm- I- I guess two years ago. When I was fourteen. I was taken advantage of. And it still troubles me. I guess." I said with a note of uncertainty.

"I am very sorry to hear that,"  Claire gave a sympathetic nod. It wasn't like how my 'friends' said that it sucks, and then would go and hang out with the boy like that was perfectly reasonable. I could tell Claire meant it. I zoned out at this point. I momentarily came back to, when a girl two seats to my left(we were in a circle) began sobbing hysterically. I couldn't make out any of the words she was saying but after Claire calmed her down, I retreated back to my mind devoid of a singular thought.

"Frances?" I came back from my mind and saw that it was just Claire and I left. The circle was deserted.

"Oh... I'm sorry. I must have dozed off," I started to grab my notebook when Claire lightly grabbed my shoulder and signaled me to sit back down. I complied.

"I actually wanted to speak to you. I realize that it's only your first group session, and I just wanted to get to know you a bit, not in front of all the other girls," she gave another sympathetic grin, "So, ask me anything?"

"I don't want to come off as rude, but how old are you?"

"Oh, that's not rude at all. I don't understand why people are so against sharing their ages. I'm 27. How old are you?"

"I turned sixteen a couple of weeks ago. Do you mind if I ask you another question?"

"Ask away!"

"What's your favorite tattoo you have?"

"Aha! I actually just got a new one that I've always wanted, but I wasn't sure where to get it." Claire pulled down her blue cardigan, and revealed a birdcage on her shoulder blade, but the wiring turned into birds flying away.

"Bob Dylan?" I asked.

""Even the birds are chained to sky"," Claire looked at me with fascination in her dark blue eyes, "I think you will be the only person I ever meet, who just knows it's a Bob Dylan quote."

"Well it's actually kind of weird because I've always wanted a handcuff chain that would turn into birds, but my mom won't let me get any tattoos until I'm 18."

"Parents really do know best. I spent my whole adolescence thinking I knew more than anybody. I was reckless and dangerous, and that wild way of life led me into many precarious situations." Claire reminisced.

"I've had to learn the hard way too. I remember the night when the boy, his name's Matthew, took advantage of me, my mom told me to be careful. She told me not to do anything dangerous. And two years later, I'm still facing  the consequences." I said. The anger started to grow in the depths of my stomach like a dog yearning for a bone. I was trying my hardest to keep it subdued.

Claire nodded again. She clearly noticed my change in mood, and I think she was trying to determine the best way to answer. "I can sort of understand how you feel. When I was 17, my mom told me that I could drink as long as I wasn't driving. She told me how dangerous it was and that I not only could hurt myself, but I could hurt others. In an act of rebellion, I disobeyed her, and I drank enough vodka to sedate a horse, and drove my friend and I to some crappy diner. On our way back home, I crashed. My friend was paralyzed from the waist down. I was injured too, but the guilt that I carried with me for causing my friend irreparable damage was far more devastating. It's been a decade now, but a day doesn't go by where I don't think of her." Claire's eyes watered and she wiped the emerging tears away quickly with her cardigan.

"Anyways, after that I decided my life mission would be to help other kids that are in pain. We all make mistakes. Some of them, like my own, really are our faults. But being taken advantage of is not YOUR fault." Her tone shifted from somber to determined. "You do not have to tell me what this piece of shit did to you if you don't want to. I will never ask you to share something so personal. But I do have an assignment for you. I want you to write a letter to him, or even better to his parents. I want you to explain that Matthew is a piece of shit. You never have to show it to anybody. You can simply burn it after you write it. But I do want  you to read it into a mirror. I want you to hear yourself say it. Do you understand?"

I nodded. "Can I read it to you?"

"I am here for you," Claire said attentively, "My door is always open, especially to someone that can quote Bob Dylan. If there is anything you ever want or need, day or night, you can barge into my office." On that note I left for my dormitory.

I was grateful to finally have something to do. My first two days at the hospital were spent in self imposed isolation. I didn't want to talk to anyone. My roommate was the same way. Her name was Maya and we'd both spend our days sitting and reading in our separate beds. I knew that whenever she hid under her blankets she was looking at an old photograph. I never asked her why she did that, although I was curious.

The next couple of weeks trickled by slowly. My days were tedious: wake up, eat breakfast, read, eat lunch, stare at a piece of paper in an attempt to write my letter, go to group therapy, eat dinner, go to sleep.

After two weeks of this mundane schedule, I waited for all of the other girls to file out of the room before cornering Claire. "I don't know what to write."

"Hmm..." She looked at me for a minute, "Well I'm going to assume you know David Bowie." I nodded, "You see Bowie was a very talented lyricist, and the way he wrote many of his songs was by just writing. He would write every thought that entered his mind, and every once in a while he'd write something he really liked."

"So you're suggesting I just write everything?"

"My motto is, If David would do it then I probably should too." Claire smirked.

With this new method, I felt invigorated. I spent the next two hours writing. I wrote through dinner, much to Claire’s pleasure. In all honesty, If anybody ever got a hold of my first draft they would need an FBI cryptanalyst to comprehend the jumble of words with no obvious correlation. As the week went on I continued to write and perfect each sentence until I felt it was honed to the best of my ability. 

At the group therapy session the following day, I lingered on my foldable chair longer than any other girl. I zoned out once again and Claire tapped on my shoulder to bring me back to Earth.

“Have you finished?” She approached me with curiosity.

“I have,” I indicated to my notebook.

“Do you still wish to read it to me? I want to be very clear that you do not have to. This is your decision. You have the power to say yes or no. A power that you’ve been neglected in the past.”

I looked at her with realization etched across my face. I can’t remember a time when I was allowed to decide what to do. At least not in the last two years. “This is what I want. And thank you for giving me the opportunity to choose for myself.” Claire smiled once again and led me to her office. It was plastered with pictures of Kurt Cobain and Eddie Vedder. Every space that wasn’t occupied by pictures of musicians was lined with books from every genre imaginable. There was Shakespeare, to Freud, and even all of the Harry Potter books.

“You look surprised. What’d you expect from me? I can’t seem that obtuse?”

“No of course not. It’s just so beautiful. I’m a little speechless.” We both giggled until Claire’s face became somber once again.

“Okay so a part of my assignment was that you look into a mirror while you read it,” She pointed at the mirror leaning against the wall, “You can sit there and I’ll be right next to you. I just want you to know that you are the person saying it.”

It might sound inconceivable to normal people, but I struggle with realizing I’m a person. Claire told me it’s called disassociation, and it usually is caused by trauma. I felt a need to clarify some things about my trauma before I read my letter.

“Claire, there’s actually some things that I never mentioned about my… situation.”

“Nor do you have to,” She retorted.

“But I want to,” She nodded and I continued, “Umm… so obviously you’re aware that I was taken advantage of, but I never shared certain details because those details are,” I teared up, and Claire sat next to me on the ground in front of the mirror, “T-the Matthew kid. He enlisted one of his goonies to take a video of it, and…” I started to choke up. The tears in my eyes were burning, “they showed it to my whole school. Every- everyone called me,” and like that the dam broke. Claire held me tight and her cardigan muffled my screams of agony.

“The-they called me a whore. And a slut. They told me I deserved it,” As I continued listing off things that I was called, the pain only grew. I felt like my insides were pulled into a riptide, “that it was my fault,” but as Claire held me and whispered words of solace, the riptide gradually turned into a calm sea on an average day. I recollected myself. Claire handed me a box of tissues. We sat in silence and as my vision began to unblur I noticed Claire had red streaks down her cheeks. She was crying too. For some reason this gave me courage. I realized in that moment that my feelings were proper. I wasn’t overreacting. I looked into the mirror. My eyes were red and puffy. I opened up my notebook and began to read:

“Dear Matthew Hughes, Mr. Hughes, and Mrs. Hughes,

I am not sorry to be giving you this letter. This may come as a surprise, but your son is truly a sick son of a bitch. Two years ago, I was hanging out with him and some friends. He gave me a bottle(I was fourteen and he was seventeen). I was vulnerable, a little stupid, and instantly intoxicated after taking one sip of his ‘concoction’. I am not going to accuse your son of drugging me, because truthfully I don’t know how I became so inebriated. I passed out while your son’s tongue was shoved down my throat. The next thing I recall was him walking me to some room. I was asking him where my shirt was. Where I was. He said something but I don’t know what. The rest of the night is truly a mystery to me. Well except for ten seconds. You see even if you don’t believe my testimony, there is proof. It is likely still in your son's camera roll. There is probably a video of an unconscious girl, and your son is doing unspeakable things to her. That girl is me at fourteen years old. I am not going to sugar coat anything because I have been living the consequences of this night for two years. I am currently being treated for clinical depression and anxiety. I have been bullied mercilessly by your son and his repulsive goonies for being RAPED by him. I have always been too scared to come forward because your son has leverage at school. He is the quarterback, he’s three years above me, girls ooh and awe over him. I always thought that if there was  another girl that has been subject to his shit I’d find out about it, and then maybe I’d speak out, but I am learning that I should seek justice for myself. I am worth far more than what your son has labeled me as. I am not a whore. I am not an attention seeker. I am truly sorry if you thought your son was a decent boy, but he is not. He took away my will to live, and I never sought any repercussions for him. I heard that you guys are Christian, so I thought I’d tell you about John 8: 1-11. Jesus was at the temple and a woman was brought in, naked, and scared. She was caught in the act of adultery. The man who was caught with her had no trial. The court was preparing to stone her. Jesus stood up to the injustice and said, “All right, but let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone!” For some reason, ever since my experience with your son, I have been able to relate to the adulteress. Not because I was guilty of anything, as I said before he stole my innocence. I had never even kissed a boy, much less anything that was shown in that video. No, I relate to the adulteress because I walked around at my school and I was naked. I was scared. I was so scared. I believe you have a daughter, and I’d like you to imagine for one moment that your daughter was put in my shoes. My mom had to watch me writhe in pain and there was nothing she could do but hold me tight. I’m sure this letter has startled you, but I’m tired of being the only one with consequences. You may think I hate your son, maybe I have reason to, but I don’t hate him. You see I hate myself far more than I could ever hate anyone else. I am not doing this as revenge. I am not doing this to get him in trouble. Nothing of the sorts. I am doing this for ME, for I have been neglecting myself for the last two years. I deserve at least some justice. I’ve never gone to the police even though I could easily charge him with the creation the and distribution of child pornography. What I’m trying to say is I am not doing this to ruin your son’s life. I am doing this because I have been burdened by these events for two years, and I am exhausted.

Frances Brown

As I looked into the mirror, I put my hand on the glass. Through my reflection I wiped away my tears and I whispered, “I’m so sorry Frances.” Claire grabbed me again and held me tight.

Two days later I was released from the ward, and I asked my mom if we could make a pitstop. We went to a neighborhood with perfectly mowed grass, lined with identical brick houses. After a couple of minutes I told her to stop. I took out the letter and I placed it in the mailbox labeled The Hughes.