Amarah's Corner: Kids Like Me


Court. A scary place to a kid like me. No, a horrifying place to a kid like me. The walls call to you. Fear festers in your brain. Shadowy figures of what ‘could-be’ follow you through dim-lit halls and sit down with you on the cold stone-bench that foreshadows your fate.

A man wearing a robe like the Grim Reaper sits with a cold-glare on his face. He holds your fate. The gavel slams down your sentence - life or death. Hell pulses through your veins and threatens to kill your insides leaving a tormented shell-of-hopelessness. Breath caught in your throat as the judge made his decision the moment she entered the courtroom. Smug-faced, her high-heels stabbed the wooden floor. Scorching pain-in-your-throat threatens to scream

anguish, betrayal, terror, and pain. She sits. No more than a sliver-of-hope remains, and it will be shredded-to-pieces in minutes.

Words echo through the courtroom-blur as your gaze-is-fixed on the man before you. Praying, hoping he will give you Life. COLD. DARK. Spinning-out-of-control. The last memory is the piercing scream that emits from your throat as the Grim Reaper slams down the gavel and exits the courtroom. Hope is dead. The air in the room stifles your breath. Tears stream down your face and burn the skin on your cheeks. All you recall are the useless attempts trying to free yourself from the smug-faced woman dragging you away from your true parent. The child who entered with Hope and Love surging through her veins is no more. She was killed by the slam of the gavel of an ignorant judge who ceased doing his job. The world ended that day. The jaws of hell opened the next. To think - if all had been handled correctly in that courtroom, that day, you would have been spared years of tragedy-never-ending.

Sixteen. You sit in a lawyer’s office. The room is cold and the walls creek every now-and-again. Nerves spike-and-rush. Nervous adrenaline affects the flow-of-your-brain making a jumble of questions. Your life at six-years-old after Grim Reaper’s life-death-sentence became a scorching pit-of-hell that you endured until the age of eight. Now, you’re in a lawyer’s office seeking justice for those who ruined your life, stole your innocence, derived pleasure from your agony and pain while passersby passed-by with their merry lives.

You sit there, leather couch pressing against your back, a false sense of comfort, nothing like the bench you sat on all those years ago. Your fingers drum in helpless-attempt to calm your nerves. The room is buzzing, almost twirling, slowly clouding your memory until shrouded in darkness. Memories reappear from the deepest, darkest part of your conscious replaying all the hits, slaps, cruel words, neglect, and pain from constant beatings. They play like a broken record in your head, feeding the festering ache-in-your-chest, labored breath slips past. Reality flashes-back as sudden movement startles you. Your

6-year-old-child-self, visible only to you, silently lays her head on your shoulder, tears of anguish-and-pain burn the skin on her cheeks. The voice of a broken-doll with run-down-batteries asks just above a whisper, “Will we get justice?” The question drones and buzzes through your head like a pesky fly. The question was simple. You can’t answer. You’re not sure. Will you get justice? Will the bastards who made your life a blistering-Hell get what they deserve? You dream of watching them fall to their knees, pain and anguish on their faces, begging, pleading for your mercy. You watch them, a smile twisting your lips as they writhe in immeasurable agony and pain. The sound of your laughter echoes as they die a slow, painful death.

The lawyer speaks. You ask, “Will I get justice?” What comes next can only be explained as a-car-flashing-by as you walk on the sidewalk. The-words-fly-past. The explanation - full of complicated, diverse wording. A simple, honest “No” would have sufficed.

You sit there. Your silent-scream sears the depths of your brain until it shatters the heart that resides in your chest leaving a bloody lump of hopelessness. Your little child-self continues to shriek, and your head hangs down in forced, uncomfortable silence. The monsters scarred your soul and beat you until all that plagued your thoughts were the arms of death embracing you, taking you in as its own, clouding your mind with darkness. Your abusers were handed justice on a silver platter and walked away free. While you, the victim, are left to rot like a corpse in a

casket. It’s the life-death-sentence decreed-10-years ago by the so-called judge. Even now, after all these years, you suffer from the evil-abusers.

Memories of the halls you roamed in 16-unfamiliar schools. People’s eyes boring-into-you. They watched. They knew. They did nothing.

The days your stomach ached and cried for food. Nothing to eat but your fingernails, scabs on your skin, and your hair. You rummaged through trashcans, and floors, for food.

The Law. The Law takes-down the demons that lurk in every-corner-of-your-nightmares. Did they keep their promise? No. It’s not always their fault.

But to endure the hell that tore your soul apart, left you a walking-corpse, shell-of-hopeless-dreams - yet, the monsters are free from justice??

The law is like a chess game. To win, you must checkmate the opponent’s king. Tragically, your demon-opponent cries, “Checkmate!” Turns out you were nothing but a pawn in their game.

And to think…  this tragic play is known as, ‘Your Life,’ stemmed from the longing for your mother’s embrace.

Amarah

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