It was my job, to put together the rape kits. The ones that proved the loss of a child’s innocence. The ones that made a monster, out of a family member.
Concentrating, using every ounce of energy to stop my body from shaking. Blinking furiously, to clear my blurry eyes.
Preparing labels, cups, swabs. Ready to collect, signs of evil destruction.
What should never have been.
We hope for the safety of our children, not expecting them to fall prey to a poison lurking in their own home.
It was my job to assemble the rape kits, while I catered to this child, trying to find a way to make the moment somehow less horrific.
There wasn’t anything, that was going to fix this.
These children had seen things not meant for their young eyes. These children had lived through terror, not fit for their young souls.
I wanted to make it better. I wanted it not to be real. I wanted to run away and scream…
Staring at the child’s family members, fighting to divert my judging eyes. Unable not to wonder,
Did you know?
Did you try to help?
Was it you?
Was it, YOU?
I arranged the fucking rape kit for this little, angelic, broken child.
Questioning every single thing.
Watching as the veil is lifted.
a new shade of ugliness.
Read more: Mental Health
Painting by Robert Abkorovits