She leans forward and hums an unfamiliar tune, perhaps one that she mistakenly overheard. Her legs are crossed, her pale dress refuses to hide the arch of her knees, and her short black hair falls, covering her pretty face. Her voice fades as she picks at the loose thread that has come undone from her mattress. A creak in the floor causes her body to tense up and her heart quickens. The thread falls limp, her gaze frozen. The awful voices outside her room grow close and her heartbeat intensifies. She holds her breath, anxious that the thump-thump rising from her chest will leak through the walls and seep into the anticipation of their ears. She fears the dreadful touch of the unknown. As they pass, she barely allows the exhale to leave her lips. She waits.
They are gone. Timidly, she looks up. Her gaze is listless, her dark eyes empty and lost. The softness of her face portrays her youth, a face where a smile is a stranger. She knows hope is absent and that evil is not too far away.
Her dreams may haunt her, but living awake is worse.
. . .
Sitting in the comfort of my home with my legs crossed, I feel the fibers brush gently against my skin, and set the warm brew poised below my lips. I inhale the aroma, letting my fingers clasp tightly around the comfort of my mug. I glance at my phone briefly, allowing my thumb to scroll through the current headlines. Images capture my eye and stories are told. There are children robbed of their innocence and I'm exposed to the existence of slavery even still. I am left speechless, watching the pain unfold, breaking with each word.
I think "that could have been me" but for some reason she is there and I am here. What can I do? How can I rescue her…them? How can I reach her and tell her that she is loved, that there is freedom, that she was made to laugh, to dance... to play?
A wild blend of rage and indignation rise from somewhere within and I don't want to read any more, I can't. Then I do. But it is too much. It is too heavy; too much of a mess for me to make sense of. The scene outside my window displays a world continuing on, unaware, unmoved. Blissful ignorance collides with grief and I want to scream, and yell. The cry catches in my throat and cannot escape. It is stuck in the depths of this dark reality.
I squeeze my eyes shut and just listen to the hum of the coffee machine, the giggles of little children waking, the sounds of life. I'm reminded again of where I too have been. Awareness leads to action. I will choose to believe. I will tell the world who she is. I may not be able to remove her hell but I will tell them her story and it will be told again, and again. She will no longer be alone. Her life of evil will be exposed and her darkness may collapse and perhaps she may see hope and experience love. Perhaps she will be free. Perhaps she may even dance.
. . .
. . .
I finish the last word of my post and the click-clacking of the keys ceases. The sun is beginning to peek through the clouds. I gulp down the rest of my coffee and place my mug in the sink. We may live ordinary lives but I am convinced the supernatural can happen when we move. I pause, and reflect for a purposeful moment before my almost three year old peeks his head around the corner.
"Momma!" He runs into my arms. I kiss him and hold him for just a minute longer before I let him go.
