Inside a "Dead" Girl's Home

I'm not really sure how to describe this at the moment, but I hope you'll read it anyway

You knock on the door, but there's no answer. The house looks a little worn down on the outside but appears cute and cozy. It was an average-sized house in a nice, quiet neighborhood with three floors. You knock again, but there is still no answer. All of a sudden, the door unlocks and creaks slightly open. Normally, you would have bolted in the opposite direction by now, but something makes you step inside. You close the door behind you and look over the well-furnished and decorated living and dining rooms, and then notice the set of stairs separating them. You are about to explore the kitchen when you feel a tug on your arm. You whip your head around and see nothing, but something tugs down on your arm again. You slowly move your gaze down and see a little girl; she points upstairs. You don't know where the little girl came from, but she seems familiar, so you curiously follow her upstairs. You get to the top of the stairs and she points to the first door on the right. As soon as you open the door bright, rapid flashes of light blind you and you shield your eyes with your arm. The little girl lets go of your hand and it all stops. She looks at you remorsefully and grabs your hand again. The lights from the room come back, but now that they aren’t flashing so rapidly you can actually see… people? But they’re not real, they almost seem like holographs. Confused, you look at the little girl, she points to her head and then the people in the room. You think for a moment and somehow connect the dots. “Memories?”, you ask her. She gives you a small smile and nods her head, pointing at the people again, signaling that she wants you to watch. Mesmerized, you watch everything being showed to you and a faint voiceover of what sounds like a little girl starts to speak. You quickly look at the little girl holding your hand, but her eyes are closed and her mouth isn’t moving. You turn back to the room as the little girl’s memories play out in a fascinating display that looks like a 3D movie without a screen. You begin to watch and listen more intently as what the voiceover is saying becomes clearer.

 

“This is where my parents slept. This is also where I slept when they were away, and I felt unsafe in my own bed. It’s odd how I found comfort in my parents’ room when I was constantly trying to hide my true feelings and thoughts from them. This is the room where they probably talked about what I went through, but never truly processed how it affected me permanently. They knew, but they never understood, never considered that the way that they dealt with hearing about what their daughter experienced could make her feel even worse. This is where they probably decided that putting a camera in the house facing the front door was a good idea. It’s funny how something that is supposed to be there to keep you safe can make you feel the exact opposite. Putting a camera in the house focuses on the wrong part of my traumatic experience, and the reasoning I was given by my mother was absolutely disgusting and hurtful. My parents were victimizing themselves in a situation where by definition I was actually a victim. To feel misunderstood and even disregarded by my own parents caused me to keep to myself, making me feel extremely alone.”

 

The lights stop flashing and you’re left staring at the room frowning. The little girl tugs on your arm again and brings you to the next door. You open the door and see it is the bathroom. The voiceover and “movie” start again.

 

“This is the room where I considered killing myself on multiple occasions. I could have drowned myself in the tub or choked myself with the shower cord or even my own hands, but I never did it. Because if I had gone through with it, that means I would have lost the battle I was fighting so hard to try and win.”

 

              Tears were streaming down your face now. “This poor girl,” you thought to yourself. She takes you to the next room and points for you to open the door.

 

“This was my younger brother’s room. He has no idea what happened to me. He and my grandma were actually in the house when it happened, which my parents don’t and must never know. That would only make things worse. My brother has overheard many conversations and arguments between my parents and I, but I don’t know if he ever put all the pieces together and figured out what we were talking about. One day he will, but hopefully when he’s much older. And if I’m being honest, I hope he never has to find out…”

 

More tears were streaming down your face now. There was only one room left; you look at the little girl and she looks sad now, but she still points to the door. You open the door and the final pieces of the story are put together.

 

“This was my room. There are a lot of good memories here, but they are overpowered by the one terrible thing that happened to me the summer of 2018. I already had depression, which only seemed to be getting worse over time, but it got much worse after what my boyfriend at the time had done to me. We were both 15 when he raped me. We had had sex before, but after the first time, our relationship changed. Every time we were together, all he wanted was sex. And one day I was too tired to do anything, and I told him that too. I said I wanted to take a nap and he said okay. But a few minutes later, he started kissing me. I kind of gave in and kissed him back, but I was still half-asleep. He then got on top of me, and one thing lead to another and in the end, I was raped. It had even been painful at times, but I had this blocked out of my memory until my psychologist told me that if it was in fact rape, it should have been painful. I had even denied it being painful at first but when I thought about it later, I had realized I simply… didn’t remember until she brought it up. When I told him to stop because I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, one time he grabbed my wrist and said, “It’s okay, I’ll just do it less.” I remember it word for word and I don’t think I will ever forget it. Even when I told him it was getting kind of painful, he would stop for a little but then continue the same thing later. All of this happened in my own bed, in my own room, in my own house. My room is where I cried for hours, had multiple panic attacks (one even caused by my father), had multiple breakdowns, and wrote in my journal late at night, where I was free to rid of my own thoughts and feelings. My room was always were I felt the most alone, the most depressed, and the most vulnerable, but now these feelings had been taken to a whole new level, one I was not prepared for. My room is where I was kept up late at night with terrible thoughts because I didn’t feel comfortable sharing them with anyone else. My house had always been a hostile environment because of my strict, traditional, and anger-prone parents, but after I told them what happened to me, I felt mentally and physically trapped. Trapped by a camera watching almost every move I made, if I dared roam downstairs. Trapped with parents who no longer trusted me in the house by myself. So trapped, that the only “safe” place was my room. The only truly safe place for me was when I locked myself in my room and remained alone. Imagine how uncomfortable, how miserable, and how alone I felt, with no one to talk to, pen and paper became my best friend. And finally, this is where we died.”

 

You stand there in disbelief, jaw dropped, tears still streaming down your face. You pause, processing everything this little girl has just told you, and then realize that she said “we” died. Your eyes almost pop off out their sockets and you look at her with so much confusion and pain, unable to ask her what she means. She takes your reaction as a cue to continue.

 

              “I bet you barely even remember me because you probably don’t like to think about how we lost each other. The story I just told you, it’s our story. I was once a part of you, but now I’m dead. Because I died, you no longer trust anyone you don’t already know, most guys make you nervous, and not nervous with the normal butterflies-in-your-stomach feeling, more like the my-stomach-is-eating-me-alive-and-I-need-to-get-out-of-here kind of feeling. Your innocence was robbed from you, innocence you didn’t even know you had. I am the optimistic, positive girl that once lived inside you, until I was weakened by depression and then murdered by that ex-boyfriend of ours. But now that I’m gone, you’ve become negative, passive, think no one has good intentions, and that people are out to get you. You occasionally succeed in covering it up with a very convincing facade. Some days, anyone passing by would think you are a very happy person with a lot of friends and little to no problems. But some days “faking it ‘til you make it” is too exhausting and everyone can tell that you’re not okay. Because in reality, you are a depressed, anxious girl with a select few real friends with problems no one would never imagine a high school girl going through, especially all at the same time. A small part of you always knew that I was dead, because you have been searching for me for a while. But you have been unable to find the slightest hint of where I went and if you could ever get me back. Your only hope is that the rest of your life doesn’t get worse because you still have your whole life to live.”

Author's Note

This is the first version of a very important work in progress because this is a combination of events that actually happened in my life and fiction

Reviews

[Zayir]

I deleted 36/40 read requests I had gotten. Your title intrigued me, so I decided to read this one. You only sent me one read request so I felt obliged to read this. I don't know what I was expecting. This is the first time on this site where a piece like this moved me and pulled at my emotions. The element of meeting the younger you, and not even being how you expected to be. You never anticipated for this to happen but it did. You are not the same person, you can come close to it but never again the same. Often I ponder about meeting my younger self as well. The 3 doors, the confusion of where you are in life, the bright uncomfortable light of the past, the little girl crying at the end, everything. The camera that is supposed to bring security but it just feels like another judgmental eye. Your safe place is supposed to be your room, but it's hard to sleep in the same bed where something so traumatic took place. Even though I'm a male and I understand how you feel towards males, I wish I could give you a hug. You went through so much but ended up being alive and winning that fight. You may have lost your innocence but you never lost your will to fight on. You are truly an amazing woman for so many reasons. I am sorry this happened, I'm sorry you parents reacted like this. I'm sorry for all this pain and trauma. I wish you luck in this long journey of recovery, therapy and learning how to deal with life. This is comment comes a little over 6 months later but this was just a masterpiece that I had to elaborate and congratulate you on turning your worst memory into one of your best pieces. I wish you all the best.
Much Love

[Onlyme]

This is a very emotionally charged read. I will have to come back and read later. A lot is going on in it. Very personal and sensitive in parts to read and take on board. I can understand your emotions and feelings and reactions and wanting someone to understand and relate and listen but more so HEAR YOU. You have had a terrible trauma happen to you in your house. you were supposed to have felt safe in, but did not, that seems to be a catalyst to other events around you with your boyfriend etc. This has affected you deeply and you have written about it in this piece. To try to help yourself and have cathartic healing in some way. And to get it all out. Going by what I have read. A lot going on. And picked this up.