When I was ten years old, summer began with unexpected news: my parents sent me to stay with my uncle in the village for a month. I was a little nervous because we had rarely met before and were not close. My uncle greeted me with a smile and a firm handshake. We arrived at his place and a cozy house and a spacious yard with a vegetable garden and a barn were waiting for me. From the first day, I began to help my uncle: we worked in the garden, fed the chickens and took care of the cow. But the most interesting thing is that my uncle had a small apiary, and he decided to teach me beekeeping. The first day at the apiary, I was scared. Bees seemed scary and dangerous to me, and I didn't know how to approach them. But my uncle calmly explained to me that bees are hardworking and wise creatures, and they will not cause harm if they are not disturbed. We put on our protective suits and got to work. My uncle showed me how to properly handle hives, collect honey and take care of bees. One day, when my uncle went to work, I was left alone in the apiary. Suddenly I saw that one of the hives was leaning over and was about to fall. Without hesitation, I hurried to rectify the situation. It was scary, the bees got excited and started spinning. But I remembered my uncle's words that the main thing is not to be afraid and to remain calm. I carefully leveled the hive and calmed the bees. When my uncle returned, he praised me for my bravery and responsibility. This situation taught me an important lesson: fear can be overcome by acting confidently and calmly, and also showed the importance of being ready to help in a difficult situation and take responsibility. These summer days not only taught me new skills, but also helped me become bolder and more confident. When I returned home, I began to look at the world in a different way: I realized that problems are just trials that help us grow and become stronger.

I want to share my childhood with you. My childhood explained may prevent many of you to create sufferings in your life. Everyone does have a unique mindset. Mindset plays a major role in building life. The same way mindset of a country builds a nation, mindset of the Universe runs the Universe. This mind is extremely powerful, not when it plays with us, but when we play with it. Mind can easily control the elements of nature, if used properly. It is not a miracle at all to create rainfall or to create something out of nothing. But for an ordinary person mind is just a tool, which makes him or her able to adjust with others and everything. In fact mind helps us to survive. A healthy mind is always friendly but when it gets infected, it becomes harmful for self and for others too. It is very rare to find a mind with no complexity. Even a simplest mind on Earth may have multi-personalities. On the other hand a well developed mind may have thousands of independent but correlated entities, which are used to control the mass. Most people live in their individual mind without experiencing the real world, the self. Up to age of 2-3 years, every kid lives in very high level of consciousness with infinite mind. After that period their mind begins to shrink around worldly thoughts. And in a few years they get captivated in their own mind, which has already become too narrowed, rotating to and fro amid routine thoughts. And this process of narrowing of mind keeps going on. Such a mind only is considered a normal mind in our society. Mind can be developed consciously. By practice one can experience new dimensions of mind. However it may happen unconsciously too. But unlike consciously developed mind, an unconsciously developed mind can't be controlled by master of that mind. A man with such a mind is like a drunken driving a brake-less car. Such a mind behaves weirdly. Every mind has potential to grow positively and beautifully. Even worst kind of mind can be transformed into best one, if given proper nourishment. Recollecting diamonds of childhood will give best possible nourishment to your mind. In my childhood, I had a sharp but confused mindset. I was genius and fool too. I was Pious, honest, kind, devoted, undisciplined, irregular, flexible and fearful. Some lucky kids do have ability to build their lives by their own, while other kids are like soil pots. They depend on potter means outer forces. And I was not a lucky kid. But never happens anything wrong in this world. Everything is on way to its' ultimate goal. Don't complain that you have all kind of pebbles, stones, sands, dirt and dust. Also some diamonds are there, which you have lost in your childhood. You just need to find them. They will help you in every aspect of your life. Help yourself. Help your kids so that they could use their diamonds properly. One of those diamonds, I had in my childhood was WATCHFULNESS. I often remember that moment of my childhood. I was 4 years old. My grandmother had taken me to a pond to collect some lotus for worship. I always remember those moments. I was walking towards the pond by holding grandmother's fore-finger. I saw the greeneries and mysterious trees surrounding the pond. I saw the bright lotus in the water. I saw the silky waves on the pond surface. I saw my grandmother collecting some flowers. I took one flower in my hand and felt the special touch of it. I sat on the soft wet grass and moved my hand in the water of pond. I saw the changed pattern of the waves. You know, I always miss those moments in which I was a part of a live portrait. I desire to see such scenery again. In later years I saw many ponds, many lotuses. But I could never feel the same, what I had felt that time. The scenery of that small pond seems to belong from some different world. So beautiful, so charming, so young, so mysterious, so live… I desire to see such a pond again. But I know that I have lost the watchful eyes, which I had in my childhood. Without watchful eyes one can never see the real beauty. Without watchful eyes one can never feel the mysterious and heavenly element present in every atom of the existence. Everything in this existence is wonderful. You, your feelings, appearing and disappearing of thoughts in your mind, your senses, your family, your house, your locality, street dogs, dust, flowers, wind, your neighbours and strangers… You would find everything just wonderful, if you could get back the watchful eyes, you had in your childhood. Don't you feel? that you have become unavailable for everything, unavailable for yourself, unavailable for other, that you are living a predicted , a predetermined life. We have divided ourselves into many entities. If we want to recollect ourselves, we have to go back to our childhood when we were undivided. Second of those diamonds, I had in my childhood, was... Link to e-stores https://books2read.com/RecollectingDiamondsOfChildhood

Dark clouds roll in on a warm sunny day. All life goes quiet. The light that once was is suffocated. The atmosphere changes into a heavy and cold one. A flash of light and loud cracks take the place of peace. One drop, a few, and then millions of heavy raindrops puncture the earth below. Soon an aggressive wind pulls in dark clouds. A siren screams on an old T.V. and everyone escapes to shelter. A summer evening like this one struck when I was a kid. Despite all this chaos, I still snuck away unnoticed. I found myself in an open field, stunned and terrified. All alone and yet very surrounded. This is one of the few ways I can almost describe what it felt like to be diagnosed with cancer. The mood changed in an instant. Snapping from a sunny, warm, and sweet day to a cold, heavy, and bitterly salty storm of one. Out of what seemed like nowhere this diagnosis showed its ugly self. At the time I was seventeen and healthy with no family history of cancer. yet there I stood. Once all the noise dissipated, I could see all the signs that were showing me what was to come. The day's I was excessively tired and countless nights I felt brittle and paper-thin. The abundance of missed school days due to being sick. Even a large lump showed up on my neck. It choked me and gave me multiple medical tests with the word “inconclusive”. Despite it all, I graduated and was excited to live. Independence and freedom were in my view and life felt like it was just beginning. This feeling didn't last long. One summer day I came home from work full of life, but something felt wrong. Like staring into dark woods and all the birds go quiet. Something is there and looming over you, but it's unclear what it is. My parents had a look on their faces I hope to never see again. My last test finally had results, even if no one wanted to hear them. I don't remember much after hearing “you have cancer” but I do remember the rain. I remember feeling like a scared kid stuck in a storm followed by a cold shock and loud thunderous anger. The first day of chemotherapy was surreal yet normal. Like a sci-fi indie film. A 5-hour drive to the hospital, blood tests, scans, injections, and then treatment. They sat me in a private room for my first treatment. There was a point I was left completely alone, just waiting. Waiting for that first sting. For that first chemical drip into my bloodstream. Not knowing what to expect, the silence of it all was suffocating. When I was freed from this silence, I was greeted with a large needle stuck into a heavy and hard plastic bump called a port placed under my skin and on my chest. One of the oddest things was the smell and the taste of chemo. As an injection, that's not what people expect. Yet it's a flavor I will never forget and never fully describe. Anything I had eaten before, during, or after became stained with a horrible, bitter taste with an unnatural, nauseating smell that still haunts me. Although these side effects were miserable they were not the worst of it. Nothing could compare to the pain engulfing my body. Bone-breaking, skin burning, stomach-wrenching sensations got worse with every injection. If you can imagine what it's like to rot and decay, that is how it felt to be alive. Living became a challenge and all the things people said to me became overwhelming. Judgment came from all corners. Harassed for being bald and everything else under the sun my mind began to melt. I became paranoid with the words being said and the chemicals in my body. I cut myself off from everything. I was furious at people, cancer, and life. Anger and determination motivated me. I decided to push. And push I did. I worked for as long as I could, looked into colleges, and even worked out. Making myself appear as fine as possible. I was running as fast as I could, but it was a race no one wins. I grew more and more fatigued and weaker by the day. Soon my immune system really started to fail. I had to slow down. I had to finally give myself a break. Let my body rest and breathe. In learning to be ok with rest, I also had to let myself feel miserable, but allow myself to stay there. Time crawled and yet flew by. My last day of treatment finally arrived. Relief swept over me releasing many tears. Months passed and my port was removed. A weight had been lifted and I could breathe again. Years have now passed. I am still recovering, mentally, and physically. I have come to accept that I may never get back to where I was. That's typical with any storm. Just like how the land is left with marks of cracked trees and muddy rivers, I now too have scars that decorate me. Some scars are on the surface and some are hidden below many layers. They show me. They show what I have lived through and symbolize the strength I have. The scars I show are like the flowers that grow in after a storm or the new tree that grows in place of the broken one. They show that even after the heaviest of storms we can always grow back.

Dear Diary, Thousand apologies for standing you up last night. I was short on kerosene for my primitive lamp 'ntandîkîra'*. I wanted to improvise with a smouldering piece of wood but was afraid to set you ablaze. I remembered the last when hot embers fell on you and a few pages turned to ashes. You still reek of smoke and soot like an incinerator. Away from that, yesterday I pioneered a robbery using my wits and stealth. My elder brother, whom I share our rickety bed with, was the accomplice. It all began when my father came home humming melodiously. The way his tune shifted from diminuendo to crescendo proved utter euphoria. The brown envelope in his hand showed that he was a bearer of good tidings. “Mama Kawira!” he shouted. “Gather the kids. The coffee payslip is here.” The seven of us ran to the compound like a litter of puppies. We had harvested 1000 KGs of coffee berries last season. According to my dad, the latter had made us Sh.65000 richer. We embraced him cordially and made our requests known. “I want a new sweater.” “I need new khakis dad.” “My tunic is torn.” “Why don't I buy you wheat flour to make chapatis* for dinner instead,” my father said. Chapati. A delicacy that came once in a blue moon. The village's most coveted meal. We all agreed without demur. Even our stomachs warmed up a little. My taste buds could not stand the promise of such explosion of flavour. Our mother barked at us and we resumed our chores. We all kept our best behaviour to avoid our prize being revoked. We even ransacked the farm for eucalyptus firewood. The softwood was known to burn moderately; ideal for frying chapatis. When dusk drew nigh, I was sent to borrow a pan from Mwalimu* Kibogi. He was among the chosen few who possessed that cooking tool. He taught Mathematics at ‘O' level. On the road, the children gave me envious stare when I shared the 'good news'. No sooner had my mother started cooking than my idea bulb lit up. Ideology motivated by mischief and greed. Our kitchen is poorly lit by a lamp only illuminating the cooking area. The sufuria where the chapatis were being put was shadowed by sacks of yams hence slightly invisible. I whispered the plan to my brother and we executed the thievery. My brother pretended to go to the toilet and stood outside adjacent to the kitchen wall. There was a crack where I slid him each chapati I managed to steal. At chapati number five, my mother arose suspicion and we had to retreat. “Is there Satan in the house,” she exclaimed. “I swear these chapatis keep on dwindling.” I gave my brother the cue and he sneaked our loot to our bed in the main house. After the sumptuous supper, everyone went to sleep. We could finally unwrap our 'munchies' and enjoy. “You are a genius,” said my brother finishing off his share. “We'll even sneak in the ndengu stew next time,” I added. We all chuckled but our bellies hurt from the overfill. Slumber soon creeped in as energy to the brain had been diverted to deal with the digestion. “Kawira! Come here you little brat!” my mother called me to our room in the following morning. “ What is this?” she was pointing at the crumbs of chapatis all over the blankets. I had been caught with my pants down. I thought Gitonga had swept the bed as agreed. Stupid lad. I swore to skin him alive. But not after my mother had rained uncountable strokes on my bottom. I still marked the heist a success since I had never eaten so many chapatis in one sitting. I learnt the lesson that a good thief should know how to hide their tracks. *Ntandîkîra- A bantu word for a simple kerosene lamp. *chapati- is an unleavened flatbread originating from the Indian subcontinent. Chapatis are made of whole-wheat flour mixed into dough with water, oil and optional salt. *Mwalimu- Swahili for teacher.

There are few places in this world that one can truly call magical. Places that seem to transcend space and time, existing entirely within themselves. I can with unshakable confidence categorize Nantucket Island as one of these places. No matter how many times I visit, it always feels like the first, with the island never failing to invoke the sense of being transported to another world. It's unique ambiance making all the stresses of my every day somehow seem nonexistent. As if the only thing in existence is the island and the ocean holding it in its embrace. The experience begins with the boat ride to the island, salty breeze forming impossible tangles in my hair and whipping against my skin with a damp stickiness. The first step off the boat onto a cobblestone street, filled with people from any place in the world you can dream of, is an unparalleled experience. Overwhelmed as the din of thousands of people buzz in and out of the surplus of shops lining narrow streets, each person moving as though they expect the world to part for them. The bustling streets of the town slowly give way to long scenic roads that span across the island. No longer surrounded by the compact buzzing atmosphere, spacious flat fields spread out on either side of the car. Lavish houses worth millions pepper the landscape, only to be abandoned the second the first leave turns orange. Sitting grey and vacant until the heat of summer returns next year. We drive further though, beyond these luxurious estates, turning onto a small road that leads to a quaint community of houses, home to the families that live year-round on the island. People who take the island in its entirety, truly able to call Nantucket their home. The house I stay in is tightly packed next to several others, sharing the same small backyard. Children gather to play in the snug space, whooping and running through the yard. Excited legs pumping and chubby hands grasping at each other in the throws of whatever game had caught their attention. The neighbor's dog yipping excitedly at their heels before losing interest and boisterously pushing through our screen door with urgent expectancy. Pawing around for the treats my sister often gave him. Away from the fancy poster of Nantucket that brought so many to vacation on the island, these small moments hold the most wonder for me. Down the street near our house lay the turtle docks. The rickety T shaped formation of old grey wood jutting out into the reed-filled water. Children crowd over the side of the dock in wide-eyed fascination as they lower raw chicken tied to pieces of long twine into the muddy water. A combination of sharp claws and teeth shred the meat in a flurry. Huge snapping turtles are pulled above water as they stubbornly cling to their catch, dangling on the string in full display. Delighted squeals bubble in the air as children gasp in exhilaration at the captivating animals. Leaning over the docks laughing and shouting as the fight for a half-eaten chicken bone intensifies. Attention rapidly shifting from one thing to another, desperately trying to follow the wild activity beneath the water's surface. Having my fill of excitement, I continue on. At the end of the street, a familiar sandy path opens up through thick bushes. Climbing the long winding beach path, up and down the dips in the sandy trail, through low hanging dappled trees, and into a clearing filled with golden grass mimicking the ocean's soft ebbing waves as the wind trickles through it. Suddenly the thin trail opens up into a dauntingly steep dune. Scorching sand scolds sandal-clad feet as I struggle to ascend the ever-shifting hill of fine pale sand. Finally, at the apex, I'm met with blue, the most magnificent and all-encompassing blue I've ever seen. The unapologetic sky distinguishable from the sparkling waters only by the infinitely present horizon. Days spent lounging in the sunbaked sand, surrounded by people of similar dispositions, content to simply exist. Eyes closed, the sun's molten warmth soaking into muscles. A gentle breeze rolling across reclined bodies and tickling exposed skin as we sink into the heated sand with a sigh. Breaths become deeper and slower still, being lulled into a slumber like trance by the gentle rhythmic whoosh of waves beating a soft lullaby. I find myself being pulled back to the island each summer to walk the same sandy path and enjoy the excitement of the turtle docks, wanting to experience all the things that make up Nantucket again and again. From the bustling rudeness of people accustomed to having the world at their feet to the earnest families whose very souls are a part of the island. Every single aspect of Nantucket supports this all-encompassing magnetic atmosphere. No matter how many times I experience it, that first step onto that warm cobblestone street brings me back to the very first time, the moment I became hopelessly enraptured.

The Monsters Beneath Me That's where they were: beneath me...under my bed, actually...the grizzly and ghoulish creatures of my childhood imaginings. But, for a six year old boy, still treading the perplexing waters between fantasy and reality, they were as real as the bed I lay upon. Night after night I would lay rigid in my bed, dreading falling asleep, for I knew that once asleep, my arm or leg would come to dangle over the side of my all-too-narrow bed. And that's when it would happen: some hideous, cartoonish monster, or team of them, would snatch my dangling limb and pull me under the bed, where all manner of horrors awaited me. Fearing what lay in wait for me, I would try to fall asleep laying perfectly still in the middle of my bed, legs together, arms tight to my sides, and hope that somehow I might safely awaken in the morning. Often, I would awaken in darkness and deep dread (did I yell for help?), sweating and shaking. Unconvinced that this was “just” a dream, I would lay there in that fixed, rigid position, trying to stay awake, but failing and falling again into sleep. To my great relief, I would indeed awaken safely each morning -- another treacherous and fearful night, survived. And although I would rise to meet the morning with my childish exuberance -- forgetting the sweat-inducing panic and fear of the night before -- all would return upon bedtime. I am not certain how long this phantasmic phase persisted. The memory is fuzzy, distorted by a lifetime since lived. But it seems to have recurred over many days, or periodically, over a week or two. I don't recall sharing these night terrors with my brothers or ever mentioning it to my dad or mom. I was, even at the age of six, deeply embarrassed by the whole thing. And so I felt rather helpless as well. But, possibly due to some innate stubbornness, or exasperation, this terrifying dreaming would abruptly stop. I can recall only opening my eyes, one morning, peering straight up at what seemed to be a wall of wooden slats pressing in on me. Startled, I lifted my head, banging it hard against the wood, exclaiming “Ow!” as one might expect. What was this? What's going on? A few seconds of disorientation and rousing consciousness passed before I realized what was ‘going on' -- where I was: I was underneath my bed! Somehow, in my sleeping state -- and I possessed no memory of doing so -- I had gotten out of bed, and, blanket and all, maneuvered myself onto the floor beneath my bed -- a tight space with just enough room, plus an inch or two, for one six year old boy. I laid there for some time, awake and marveling at this strange feat of magical transportation. And then, another profound realization came over me: if I was under my bed, then there couldn't be monsters under my bed, too -- there was simply no room for them. I remember smiling, even laughing out loud. That whole day I felt a strange, all-pervading sense of calm and confidence that I had never felt previously. I had, unknowingly, found the solution to my night time hallucinations. I had confronted the monsters where they lived and had emerged the stronger! I had become my own hero. No help from mom or dad or divine intervention. And, something in me had changed, permanently. My view of ‘reality', however limited by youthful inexperience, had been forever altered. I felt, deeply, that my Life was no longer the same. Possibly, I might have spent a night or two more sleeping under my bed (just to be sure), but I distinctly recall the complete vanquishing of those limb-snatching ghouls that were just out of sight, and yet so close beneath me. And, over the months following, whenever a new night time phantasm emerged, I would somehow find a way to thwart or out-smart it, as if now possessing magic powers. Over the years, I would come to confront other fears common to many...such as the ‘panic' of having to speak in front of others and even a fear of hypodermic needles. I remember a nurse rubbing the alcohol-soaked swab on my arm, just moments before being ‘stuck'. I started to feel that familiar panic rising up in me. Closing my eyes, slowing my breathing, I recalled that long-ago morning when I woke up beneath my bed. But now, I felt only an eye blink of anxiety, and then a wave of calm flowing over me as the needle pierced my skin. I think I laughed -- surprising myself, and the nurse. This ‘extinguishing' would ultimately prove invaluable as, only a few years afterwards, my dad developed an acute form of dysplastic anemia and was in need of a familial blood supply for possible transfusions. And, in the ride to the hospital, feeling no little pride, I recalled the vanquishing of those monsters once more. It might seem strange to say it now but I believe I first started ‘growing up' the moment that my six-year-old-self woke up, under my bed, bumped my head, and laughed.

26 years later, when I look back in life; I remember my first favorite teacher asking me one summer afternoon in class, "What do you want to be when you grow up, young man?". I pointed out of the window, to the blazing sun outside, "I want to fly to the sun and ask her to cool down a bit", I said. "How do you know the sun is a girl?", she seemed intrigued; "Because she always looks angry, just like my mother", my response was followed by a ring of laughter as miss favorite pulled my cheek, gave me a smile and said "Always aim for the sky, my little firefly!" That afternoon after lunch, my stomach full to the brink, my mind half numb, I gazed at the sun. My body felt light and I began to rise. A sparrow came by, chirped me a "Hi!" and I began to fly. I followed it's trail and began to rise, the sun blazing down, came nearer. The houses became smaller, the birds became fewer and I kept on rising till my eyes went yellow, the heat too much and I touched the sun. The Sun was angry, she had no friends, she had no love. I shook her hand, gave her a smile and promised her I will be back in a while. "Hey you boy, where are you looking?", just then I heard madam crazy-eye shout and remembered I was dreaming in class. 26 years later, when I look at my life, I see my fancy clothes, I see my new home, a new laptop in-front of me, I realize I am someone but Someone I have become but not who I wanted to be. I am no longer a firefly, my legs firmly grounded. I work a thousand hours a day with no life anywhere to be founded. I have made a lot of friends though, weird, crazy and fun, but none of them have the yellow and the glare of my favorite, "SUN!". When I look at the Sun now, she gives back an angry stare; I give her back a smile but she no longer cares!

Hello dear reader! My name is Myrzabek, I come from Sunny Bishkek, Kyrgyz Republic. I wanted to share my life story. So, first, I'm 23 years old, a man, working as a doctor. I'll start with my childhood. Childhood. I was born in the summer month of July, 1995. I'm the only son in the family. I lived in a village with my own traditions and peculiarities. As a child, I was a very active boy, I could not sit in one place. Since I was constantly running (playing football), I was a lean physique. Constantly fell during the run and with bloody knees came to where the water flows, washed and applied the plantain to the affected area. When I was 10 years old, I realized one thing that someday I would grow up and earn my own money, but I wanted it already at the time when I was in grade 4, at school. It was 2005, and computer technologies have reached our village. It was at this time that computer games like Counter-Strike, GTA Vice City, NFS Most Wanted were popular, and enterprising people bought about 10 sets of personal computers and were provided for use, and for each used hour computers were paid 10 soms - $ 0.14 ( local currency). I really liked the game GTA Vice City, played it every day and spent from 10 to 30 soms a day just to play on the computer this game, because at that time a personal computer was a luxury and not everyone could afford. And that I did not ask for money from my mother, I decided to make money on my own. Almost all the inhabitants of our village had their own farm, bred cows, horses, rams. In autumn the sugar beet season came and the harvested crop was surrendered to a sugar factory. It was transported on tractors and other trucks. On the way to the sugar factory, in one section, about 300 meters long, there was a wavy and poor road surface, and it was on this site that the beets were falling from the sides of the loaded transport, I collected it with bags, every day after school I came in school clothes with two bags in his hands, and collected the beets that fell to the ground. So in one day I collected about 2 bags of sugar beet and sold them to my neighbors. On the money I earned, I bought my food at school and every day I visited a computer club on my way home. I was very happy that moment, the feeling when you could pay your own expenses made me very happy, added strength and spirit to me that there is nothing unreachable, no matter what age you are, the main thing is a great desire to want it and have a clear implementation plan. Everything went on for the time being. Mom suspected my frequent absenteeism of the last lessons from school and the fact that I stopped asking her for pocket money. Since our village is small, everyone here knew about each other about who and where. In the end, my mother learned everything and forbade me to do this business, convincing me that I needed education and eventually I realize that she was right. I really love my mother and always did what she says, because her mother does not want a bad son. At this point my first project on sales with daily income ended. What I want to say, you ask. It's just my Asian childhood story. I hope you will enjoy.

Once upon a time, you couldn't hurt a princess. In the beginning I pretended I didn't, but To the man who sneaks in and calls me his princess, I know it's you. I recognize your hands, your breath, your arms, and your noises. But you must know that I do. Your hands―the ones around my throat that tie those knots around my wrists at night― The same that I watch pack my lunch in the morning. Your breath―the first thing I hear when you hover near my ear, biting my neck at night― The same that pants after a flight of stairs and smells of garlic. Your arms―the heavy weights on my legs at night― The same that Sis and I clung onto as a little girls. And your noises―the groans and moans and spine-tingling whispers I hear at night― The same that come from Mommy's bedroom on the weekends. I know who you are, Yet I'm a good Daddy's princess and try not to squeal; I sit politely at family meals, like a real princess would. I never complain about the stains on my sheets or gowns, Or ask questions about our nightly interactions. I'm a good little secret-keeper; I never say a word. I'm a great actress too. As you know, I can play pretend. But pretending to forget is easier than pretending to not feel pain. Pain is the body's message to the mind that something is wrong. So it's hard to pretend that I can't feel you stuff yourself inside me. It takes years of skill. But I've been practicing since the beginning. I pretend at school, too. We talk about boys and imagine they've just invited us to the ball, like we're real princesses just waiting for a prince to sweep us off our feet. And with Coach Harry, too, at tennis practice: I always ask him for Band-Aids for the burns on my knees, Claiming I took another fall. I pretend with Dr. Henry, too. I pretend it's opposite day whenever I see him and his notebook of scribbles: I tell him I'm happy, I'm eating well; the family is great, that nobody's touched me, that Daddy is kind, and that I have no fears. Dr. Henry is pretty bad at playing opposite day, so I keep the score to myself. We eat dinner as a family, and Mommy goes to bed early since she has to wake up at 5 in the morning. And then Sis goes to her room and gets ready for bed. I do too, but I don't fall asleep straight away, I lie awake and wait for you to come. I know you're coming soon, And so does the man in the moon that looks through my window. I keep one eye attending to the door, Hoping that maybe, just maybe you don't need me anymore. But my hope dissipates into brittle pieces Like flaming acrylic disintegrating into ash. The instant my auditory cortex notices the door creek; It launches the threat straight to my amygdala. My sympathetic nervous system ignites, sending a surge of fiery-hot energy to my extremities. My breath gets heavy and goose bumps blanket my body. My heart starts racing and my legs twitch as fast as the twinkling stars in the sky. I know what's coming next, so my body tells me to scream. But I fight the instinct because I don't want Daddy to get mean. I watch you inch past the doorway with the roll of adhesive dangling like a bracelet on your wrist. We've done this too many times; you know me too well and expect that I'll yell; You can't risk me waking Big Sis. I hear the tape tear slowly, like my innocence you incrementally unthread from my body. I watch your hands guide it to my mouth. I suck in my lips so when you rip it off it won't hurt as bad. I close my eyes and start to pretend That you hadn't just created a story where the princess can't live happily ever after in the end. _ Please forgive me, little Sis. I really thought he just did it to me Or that Mommy was right; it was just a bad dream, even the screams. But one night he never came in, and I got up to see him skulk into your room. I saw his hands around your neck, your mouth clapped shut with the tape he used to use when I was bad, and your body thrashing into the sheets. That night I knew it wasn't just me and my dreams. And I wasn't his only favorite little girl. You were too. It suddenly all made sense… …the bug bites on your neck…. …the rug burns… .…your wobbly walk…. …your peeling lips… …the thick slices around your wrists… Your body looked like mine from when I used to resist. Those nights he didn't come in I told myself he was over it; that the nightmares were over; he'd had enough. But he hadn't. And I should have listened to Mommy when she said “dreams are too good to be true.” Because I could have saved you. I knew it was Daddy when I felt his studded wedding ring go inside me And when he made a mess and shuffled anxiously to my closet for that stained, crinkled dress. I just didn't know he went to your room next. I'm so sorry that I was too afraid to confess. You don't have to pretend anymore. You don't have to hide anymore. You're safe. We will write our own fairy tale ending― one where the bad guy doesn't win.