Sunday, 25 March 2012

Tracy Beaker

She was 11 years old. She cant remember when she was taken into care, because she was too young to be able to do so. But she knew she was in care, because that is what they called it. A strange thing to say she thought – I guess they just want to make themselves feel good about it.

But she knew her parents did not want her, and pain like that leaves scars that will never heal, although they are difficult to see, but not impossible, especially if you knew what to look for, and those men knew what to look for.

He was a good looking man who treated her like an adult, gave her cigarettes and alcohol. He let her say what she wanted and just listened – to start with.

Then he started kissing her, she felt like she had to, because he had brought her so many things and been nice to her, besides he did not like it when she refused or turned away, sometimes he would shut and she felt scared – but who could she tell.

Then he started touching her, and introducing her to his friends and giving her drugs, and doing ‘it’.

But who could she tell, besides – no one would believe her – he told her, and she knew it. Nice Muslim men like that – and white trash like her that nobody wants.

So she closed her eyes, and cried her self to sleep some nights. pain like that never leaves you, but it can be ignored, easy when everyone else ignores you aswell.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Post a Comment