I'm OK.
Imagine a boy, about ten years old, walking home with a boy in class, his first real friend. He steps on his front porch, telling his friend that his mom is sick. He opens the door a crack and slid inside.
Beer bottles littered the floor around his step-moms feet. No, his new mom, as he was to call her Mom or Mommy now. It was the rule. Imagine the boy walking quickly to his room, setting his book bag down, kicking off shoes that were barely holding together. He didn't deserve new shoes, his father said so.
Another day, another hell. That night, under his father's watchful eyes, he said his prayers.
"...and God bless my Dad and my Mom,Amen," he finished. In his mind, he begged, 'Dear God, please, don't believe me.'
A boy in a classroom, the teacher walks around, she notices the bruises. Concerned, she pulls him aside after class.
"Are you OK?"
"I'mfine," but in his head, 'Please don't believe me."
But she did.
She had been so nice. She baked cookies, and made him laugh. Then one day, she packed her bags, hugged the boy, and left. He said goodbye, waved, but in his mind he screamed, "Please don't leave me. I can't do this alone.'687Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡY8hu7RE9xD
But she did.
Image a dark room where a boy curled in a ball on the bed. Footsteps down the hallway. He cringed, whimpered. The door opened. 687Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4Ttn26dHkT
" I'll hurt you if you tell."
So, he didn't.
Now, they call him a survivor. They see him as strong to have survived the abuse. Nobody saw the damage he did to himself. No one saw the fear, and nobody heard him cry, or heard him beg.
"Please, don't believe me."
No, all they heard was "I'm OK."
687Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjXjmB2GixS
Want to know a secret? That boy is me.
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