!!TW: CHILD ABUSE AND CUTTING!!

“Life is so beautiful, isn’t it?” June turned to me and smiled, letting the sun warm her face. I gave her a weak smile in return. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was wrong.

Life is not beautiful. Life is cruel. Life is cold. Life is unforgiving. I would know. I quietly ran my fingers along my fresh scar and winced. I vaguely remember a time where I felt like June. The world was all rainbows and kittens. Until it wasn’t. I still remember the first time he touched me. The feeling of his rough hands burned into my skin so deeply, that no amount of scrubbing could wash away.

“Shhh,” he whispered into my ear. I rememeber snapping awake. The weight of his body and his hand clamped tighly over my mouth sent me into a panic. “No, no, shh,” he pleaded as I squirmed under him, “its okay. You’re okay. Its daddy. You’re safe.” He slowly removed his hand from my mouth. I had calmed down. Afterall, daddy was my knight. He would always protect me. What was there to be afraid of? I scoffed under my breath, I was so stupid back then.

“Good girl,” he breathed into my ear deeply. “So good for daddy.” His touching made me feel dirty. I hated his touch but I lived for his praises. He convinced me that daddies who truly love their little girls did this. I was old enough to know it was wrong; I was young enough to want to make my daddy happy. He convinced me it was normal. It wasn’t abuse, it was a form of deep love. Deep, sadistic, fucked up love. I hate him. I hate myself.

“Isn’t my little girl the most beautiful you’ve ever seen?” He boasted to everyone we met. It used to make me feel special, them nodding in agreement. Now it makes me nauseous. I wanted to scream at them. Didn’t they know what he was doing to me? Didn’t they know that being beautiful meant horrible things would happen to them? Why couldn’t anyone see it and save me?

I wanted to be ugly. I longed for it. I didn’t want anyones eyes to lust after me. I remember the first time I slid a razor across my thigh. A friend had taught me after I saw his scars. They were ugly. I remembered “not too deep.” It felt oddly empowering. It didn’t change anything. He bandaged my thigh and cried. He asked me why I did it, why I would want to make his beautiful baby ugly. I didn’t answer. He smacked me. I kept doing it, but it didn’t work. I press into my fresh scar again, harder. I smile at the burning pain; it brings me comfort.

This world is not beautiful. Not for everyone. But I dont have the heart to tell that to June. It would be cruel to make June aware of this fact. She deserves to bask in her blissful ignorance under a warm summer sun. So this is the lie I will tell:

“Yes, June. Life is beautiful.”

I flipped the news channel on at six pm like I do everynight. They were covering the story of a little girl who had "the mark." The mark was long and red. It resembled a snake, starting at her temple and ending at the point of her chin. It was the mark of a murderer. She was only ten years old, about to turn eleven, when all children who shared her mark were taken away.

"A safe and wonderful place," the brochure stated. The had actually made a brochure for this place. The place where they take all soon to be murderers. It was a load of crap.

The history of the marks is actually quite interesting. It all started with the murderer's mark, and others like it. It was created by some scientist almost two-hundred years ago. The crime rate was getting way out of hand so this scientist, along with a few others, figured out how to determine, pre-birth, who was going to grow up to be a criminal. They did this through a saline solution injected into the mother when she is twenty weeks pregnant. The saline didn't hurt the baby, but left a unique mark to determine the child's future. It made sense. If you knew who was going to commit a crime, you could stop it before it happens. The system worked for years. After some time, there were usually only "misdemeanor" marks such as lying or stealing. Evolution or something. But the murderer's mark never completely disappeared. True, it was unheard of and very uncommon. Soon, many parents wanted to know what their child would grow up to be, so the saline solution was adjusted so that it would determine who every person was meant to be.

I was particularly interested in this little girls story because it could have just as easily been me in her position, had my parents not hid the mark. I'm not a murderer, at least not yet. I didn't want to murder anyone. I wasn't angry, I wasn't violent. I was just me. A normal high school senior girl.

This little girl's parents didn't want her to be taken so she was sent to hide in the woods. It took four days before officials found her, well found her body. It was a sad story, although I'm sure very few people would agree with that statement. I didn't exactly blame them. When the mark does show up, it causes fear. Most people fear for their lives, most "murderers" fear for theirs. No one knew what really went on in those so called camps. But it wasn't good. My mother is a social worker and so she is able to know "privileged" information about the camps. She doesn't know what exactly goes on, but she knows those children, who are still innocent by the way, suffer. She hid my mark to protect me from suffering. She has the mark of a life saver, also rare.

I turn the TV off when they finish the story. The news reporters were actaully praising the police for protecting civillians. Praising them for hurting a little girl who just wanted to be with her family. It was disgusting. I walk up my stairs to get ready for bed.

As I fall into an uneasy sleep, I dream I am the little girl that ran for the trees.

"This way," I hear someone whisper. I look in the direction of the voice and it belongs to a familiar boy. He motions for me to follow. We run down by the river, trying to avoid the flashlights. One light shines right on me.

"She's down here!" I hear a voice yell. I catch a tiny glimpse of red hair. Mom! Before I can call out to her, the boy is by my side. He pulls me out of the light and we begin running.

"Wait!" I say to him. "That was my mom. She wants to help us!" The lights are not far behind us but he stops running and points. I slow and look in the direction of his finger. I see my mom again, only she isn't trying to help. She wants to arrest me. I take off running blindly and boy calls out to me. The boy catches up and jerks me to the left. He stumbles and before I can think we are both on the ground. The boy is quick to his feet and tries to grab my hand. It's too late. My mom towers over me and reaches down. The boy is gone.

You idiot! Dont you know the dangers of secondhand smoke?! How many times have I told that I have ASTHMA? At least a couple hundred times. How many times did I beg you notto smoke around me while I was pregnant or around my child after I gave birth? You're rude smoker. You're a rude person. I will never in my life understand how someone can possibly smoke around someone they claim to "love," ESPECIALLY a child! You can cause sids, breathing problems, earaches. colds, pnemonia, asthama attacks, and cancer. MANY of these problems, especially in infants and children can cause death. But of course you don't care. You never will. Your disgusting habit will forever be more important than anything else because you only care about yourself. If you don't love your grandson enough to protect him from the dangers from not only secondhand smoke, but thirdhand smoke as well, then you won't see him. And you haven't, for six months because I meant what I said. But you don't care. You don't ask about him, you don't want to see him, you don't promise you'll change (not that I would believe you if you did). Although I'm sure you love complaining that you don't get to see him to other people. Screw you. I have asthma as a result of my parents allowing smokers in my life. I'll be damned if I make my child suffer the consequences for your dirty habit. If you want to kill yourself with cigarettes., go ahead. Don't bring down my son with you.

This is an sample from a novel I'm writing.

I started to climb the stairs. The blood stains trailing the light-colored carpet was also not a good sign. I checked the bathroom right off the top of the stairs. Bloody handprints coated the white porcelain sink. At this point, my stomach was so heavy that it practically touched my toes. I followed the blood trail out of the bathroom. It ended at John and Judy’s bedroom door. The door creaked as I slowly pushed it open. The sickening smell of death was particularly strong in here. This wasn’t going to be good.

I saw her in the corner, slumped over in a sitting position. I stood still. The dead one slowly raised her head, making a low groaning sound. Like she was in pain. Tears welled in my eyes. No. Judy slowly rose from her spot in the corner. Time was moving in slow motion. Judy had been hugging a stuffed animal, one of Ariella’s, no doubt. It hit the floor as Judy outstretched her arms in my direction. She sniffed the air and clamped her teeth. I could see a single bite mark on her upper right arm. She was getting closer and closer but I couldn’t move. I was frozen, again. This time though, I had an overwhelming sense of sadness. Judy and her husband moved in when Ariella was only one year old. We had many block parties and cookouts together over the years. I had babysat Ariella all the time. It wasn’t fair. Tears burned my eyes as Judy got within arms-reach. Instinct took over and I quickly moved out of her way. I hadn’t made a sound and could barely breath. My movement must have confused her because she stumbled. She looked around aimlessly, sniffing the air. Her milky eyes landed on me several times before she even turned my direction. Wasting no time, I swiftly kicked her legs out from under her, copying the move Mike had made earlier. I had knocked her on her back. This didn’t seem to faze her. I brought my hunting knife into her eye socket hard. It took quite a bit of force to push it in far enough. When the handle touched her face, she stopped moving. No one had prepared me for how difficult this could be. When I was finally safe, I let the tears flow.