Dear Anna

It’s been almost 15 years now. I am 26, I own my own apartment, and I have a child of my own on the way. I rarely pay you any mind, but I passed by the cemetery the other day, and I couldn’t help but wonder. I realized that I have no earthly idea where you are, or what you have been doing… one can only hope you haven’t found another little girl to scar.

You will be unhappy to hear that the lines on my collarbone and chest have faded, and I can wear a tank-top without getting stared at. I know you wanted me to remember you—remember the pain and the torture you put me through every time I looked in the mirror, but time really does heal all wounds.

I never think about you. I never think about your hands encapsulating my throat. I never think about the cool touch of that butcher’s knife as you drew it over my skin. I never think about how you bound me to the top bunk with your sheets, and how they dug into my skin when I writhed and screamed as I listened to you choke the life out of my mom and dad.

I don’t think about you. I just wanted you to know that my baby girl will never have a sister.

Because you were the monster under my bed.