A Rebirth

Melinda had worked for years keeping the past buried, yet the memories never actually disappeared. They stuck with her like a second skin, echoing quietly, surfacing when she did not anticipate them. Tonight was one of those evenings.

She curled onto her bed, knees tucked up to her chest, the pale light of the bedside lamp casting long shadows up the walls. Her fingers traced the fine, silvery marks on her wrists, ghosts of a fight she had struggled with a long time before. Each was a reminder, a witness to the pain she had endured, the suffering she had endured.

Her torment began early. Middle school was supposed to be a time of learning and fun, but it had been a battle for Melinda. She had always been a quiet kid, shy and bookish, too different some of the time to be at ease with her peers. The insults had been small at first, barely significant. They mocked the way she dressed, spoke, and handled her books as if they were her best buddies. But cruelty has a way of festering, and soon the whispers became shoves, the laughter became jeers, and the ostracism became something unendurable.

The harassment escalated from mean taunts to intentional torture. They'd shove her in the hallways, knock books from her hands, and spill food on her at lunch. One time, they filled her locker with garbage, the stench lingering on her clothes for days. The worst of it wasn't even the physical violence, was the exclusion, the feeling of being invisible except when she was being ridiculed.

She tried to comfort herself that things would get better, that if she just kept her head down and remained in school, she would somehow manage to make it out. But the world had other plans.

And then there was the blackest night of all.

She had trusted him. A senior boy, an older one, one who had the kind of smile that made her feel seen for the very first time in her life. He told her that she was different, that he knew her. And as a moth to a flame, she longed to believe him. That night, for friendship, he walked her away from the party, into the dimmed-down corridors where music faded, where nobody would ever hear her cry out.

The memory sickened her, bile rising in her throat. She remembered him on top of her, the roughness of his fingers, the stench of alcohol in the air from his breath. She had said no, pleaded with him, and fought, but he was stronger. When he was done, she lay there, broken, her body a stranger to her, her spirit crushed. And when at last she could crawl away from him, she discovered the world hadn't stopped turning. The stars kept on twinkling, the band continued to play, and no one had ever missed her.

The next few days were all a haze. She had no idea how to cope with what had occurred. She avoided mirrors and couldn't bear to look at herself without being ill. The bruises on her arms, the soreness between her legs- it was like a dream, something that had happened to someone else.

But the terror was not yet over.

The rumors started nearly immediately. Rumor in the halls, ugly giggles in the rear. She had been seen leaving the room in a tangled mess, hair mussed, eyes red-rimmed. They didn't see the truth. They noticed what they desired.

"She was asking for it."

"She's a crybaby."

"Slut."

The words are knives that cut her again and again. Teachers look at her with sympathy, suspicion. Friends-if there ever were any-fall away from her. She stands alone in her suffering. Along with the crushing burden of it all.

The weeks turned into days, the pain festering within her. She lost her appetite, lost her voice unless necessary. She was a shadow of her former self, living but not living.

One night, alone in her room, she made up her mind. She was tired of hurting, tired of existing in a world that had ever been anything but cruel. The knife was cold, the pain sharp but fleeting. She closed her eyes, waiting for the silence to take her.

But fate wasn't finished with her yet.

She was found by her mother just in time, the alarm in her voice piercing the fog. She awoke in a hospital, the smell of antiseptic in her nostrils, the worried faces of the nurses peering over her. She had survived, but then she had not wanted to.

Her mother cried for days after, keeping a hawk's eye on her, not wishing to release her from view. There was therapy, stilted sessions where she had to discuss things she never wished to put into words.

"How are you feeling today, Melinda?"

She never got an answer. How did she describe the emptiness, the sensation that she had already died, but her body would not cease to function? The therapist promised her she would recover eventually and that she needed to be gentle to herself. Kindness was something she did not think she could afford.

Later, she stopped therapy and stopped trying to pretend she could be "fixed." The wounds on her wrists healed, but the hurts inside her still didn't. She was able to cover it well enough to make people stop worrying, but the hurt remained.

Now, all these years on, she smoothed her fingers over her scars, took a deep breath. The past would always linger, a ghost that haunted the periphery of her mind. But she had survived. And maybe-maybe, at least-that meant that she was braver than she ever thought she could be.

She got up out of the bed, shedding the weight of the past. No use thinking about it all. She had learned that. Life moved on, whether she liked it or not.

Outside, the city throbbed with life. The neon lights strobed, the automobiles honked their horns, and the people laughed and screamed in the wind. The world didn't stop for anyone, not even her. She hugged her coat tight and stepped out into the night, blending with the shadows.

Melinda had survived. But surviving wasn't living. And she didn't know if she'd ever learn how to do that.