Mr. and Mrs. Black welcomed me into their home with a warmth I hadn't felt in a long time. Their kindness was genuine, their smiles reassuring. They were everything my last foster parents hadn't been—attentive, compassionate, and eager to make me feel at home. But even their best efforts couldn't reach the part of me that had been shattered.
The first few days were a blur of new routines and unfamiliar faces. Mr. Black was always checking in on me, offering to help with homework or just chat about my day. Mrs Black made sure I had everything I needed, from a cosy new bed to my favourite snacks. I could see how much they cared, but no matter how hard they tried, I couldn't shake the anger and pain that had become a part of me.
"You don't have to do this alone, Mia," Mrs. Black said gently one evening, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "We're here for you."
But I pushed her away, my temper flaring. "You don't understand! You don't know what it's like!"
Mr. Black tried to reason with me. "Mia, we're just trying to help. We want what's best for you."
I snapped back, "Yeah, right. You just want to fix me like I'm some broken toy."
Their patience was boundless, but I couldn't stop myself from lashing out. I was angry at the world, at my circumstances, at everyone who had ever let me down. I began to self-harm, the physical pain a twisted form of relief from the emotional torment. Every cut was a silent scream, a way to deal with the overwhelming sense of helplessness.
When Mr. and Mrs. Black found out, their concern was palpable. They took me to see a counsellor, a kind woman named Dr. Hayes, who tried to get through to me with gentle words and empathetic listening. Andy, a girl from my counselling group, was the only person who seemed to understand. She became my confidante, the one person I could talk to without fear of judgment. She even gave me a phone so we could stay connected, a small gesture that meant more to me than she could know.
Despite their best efforts, Mr. and Mrs. Black couldn't do much without evidence. They made it clear that they believed my trauma wasn't my fault. "We want to help you," Mr. Black said during one of our conversations with Dr. Hayes. "But we can't take any action without proof."
I knew they were doing everything they could, but it felt like I was trapped in a cycle of pain and anger. The new home, with all its kindness, couldn't erase the scars of my past. Every attempt to heal felt like it was stymied by the weight of what had happened to me.
As days turned into weeks, the therapy sessions became a crucial part of my life. Andy and I bonded over our shared experiences, and her support became a lifeline. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the feeling of being a shadow of who I used to be. The constant battle between wanting to trust and feeling like I'd been betrayed left me in a state of constant conflict
It was a Saturday, and the weekend stretched out like a promise of respite. I was still grappling with the new reality of my life, trying to adjust to Mr. and Mrs. Black's home. They were kind, but no amount of kindness could fill the void left by the traumatic events that had unfolded.
School was set to resume on Monday, just in time for my exams. I had been assigned a series of online projects and assignments to complete over the break. The pressure to catch up was intense, but it was a welcome distraction from the endless pain.
Today, Andy called. Her voice was bright and cheerful as she invited me to a girl's sleepover. "Hey, Mia! How about a sleepover tonight? I've got snacks and movies, and we can just hang out. It'll be fun!"
I hesitated but agreed. The idea of spending time with someone who understood, even if just a little, was comforting. Later that evening, I found myself at Andy's place, surrounded by cosy blankets and the soft glow of fairy lights.
As we settled in, Andy, ever perceptive, noticed the way I flinched at certain questions and the haunted look in my eyes. "You know, Mia," she began, her voice gentle, "I've been meaning to ask you about that day. If you're comfortable talking about it, I'd like to understand what happened."
I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the memories pressing down on me. Andy's room smelled of lavender and vanilla, an oddly soothing scent. I looked at her, trying to find the right words.
"Well," I started, my voice trembling, "it was a day like any other until Chad and his friends cornered me in the gym. I was recording my workout—just trying to improve my form and make sure I wasn't making any mistakes."
"You smell nice, Mia," he said, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Is that how your mother felt? When she was trying to please others?" He came behind me and touched me.
*Present time* I nodded slowly, my throat tightening. "I was recording to review later, but when Chad and his friends showed up, they somehow managed to sabotage the evidence. I thought I had captured everything, but they smashed my phone and erased the footage."
Tears welled up in my eyes as I continued, the memories of that day flooding back. "They took turns, and I could hear their laughter, their cruel jokes. I was so scared, and all I wanted was for someone to help me. But instead, they made sure that no one would believe me. They twisted everything, and the school just... let them get away with it."
Andy listened quietly, her expression one of deep empathy. "That sounds incredibly painful, Mia. I'm so sorry you had to go through that."
"It was like being trapped in a nightmare," I said, my voice breaking. "I felt so helpless, and now, even with all the support around me, I still feel like I'm stuck in that moment. Like I can't escape it. I asked him why me. He said I was vulnerable and had no one to back me up. I am trash and NO ONE cares if I am humiliated or not." I break into tears.
Andy reached out and took my hand gently. "You're not alone, Mia. We're going to get through this together. And I promise, we'll find a way to make sure your story is heard, even if it's hard."
We spent the rest of the evening talking, sharing stories and laughter, and for a brief moment, I felt there is still hope, for me.