Chapter Three - Confession

On my walk to work after school, I can feel myself shaking so hard that you would think it’s below freezing outside. It’s not. It’s over 90 degrees. But I am terrified of what awaits me.

Work: normally my safe place. Normally a place to laugh and smile with my coworkers and see the joy on a customer's face at the first heavenly bite of a Mahi sandwich. 

But now, it’s just another cage for me to sit in and await my freedom. Another cell in which to try to make sense of my life as it is. 

When I walk through the front door of the store, my heart drops from my chest into the pit of my stomach. Tiffany, the social worker, sits alone at a booth. I try to avoid her and make a beeline for the kitchen, but she sees me and calls over to me. “Aliza, please join me.” She stands and waits patiently in the booth. 

Hesitantly, I comply. She smiles warmly at me and holds a hot coffee mug. 

I frown in confusion. “What are you drinking? We don’t sell coffee.”

“It’s chamomile,” she explains.

“We don’t sell that either!” I exclaim and laugh. 

Tiffany’s eyes are so sincere as she looks at me. I feel as though she can see through all of the heavy layers that protect me. She can see that terrified little girl curled up inside. She is trying to peel the layers away. I try to determine if it’s working or not. I decide it’s not. I won’t let anyone in. I won’t let them. Because I can’t. The possibilities of what could happen spin wildly in my mind.

What if I tell the truth and they don’t believe me? What if they accuse me of wanting it to happen? What if I tell them and they turn around and tell my father what I said? I will get home and be beaten to a pulp.

My heart pounds wildly in my chest and I wonder if maybe the world will end today. Beads of sweat trickle down the back of my neck. “So what are you doing at my job?” I ask Tiffany.

“I think maybe we should go somewhere more private to talk,” she says, looking around.

I glance around as well. Maybe she is right. We are in a two-person booth, one out of four, in a 700-square-foot dining area. Every booth is full and there are 3 people waiting in line to order To-Go. But what will happen if I leave? Will I lose my job? Shit.

“Let me ask my boss first,” I say.

“Already taken care of!” Tiffany beams and rises from the booth. She carries a Michael Kors purse. “I spoke with your boss, Ana, before you got here. Follow me, we are just going to walk about a block to this bookstore I know.”

I follow her to the front door. On my way out, I glance back and see Ana watching me walk away with a single tear rolling down her cheek. 

“So, I wanted to talk to you in private, because I find it easier to talk with someone one-on-one like this. Is that okay?” Tiffany treats me as though I am a wingless bird, delicate and in need of lots of care. Maybe she is right in that assumption, I tell myself. 

“Yes, of course.”

“So, tell me what your life is like, Aliza. I promise you can trust me and you can tell me anything. Nothing I say will ever be told to anyone that may harm you.” She says this so matter-of-factly that I have no choice but to believe her.

“My life sucks!” I blurt out. I feel my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. “I mean, I’m sure there are plenty of people who have it a million times worse than me, and whatnot… but still. If I am being honest with you, most days I just want to disappear or die. I don’t even want to be here anymore. I don’t know if I ever did.”

Tiffany is silent for some time. “Tell me,” she prompts. Her unspoken words are louder than the verbal ones. “Please tell me what they do to you. Please let me help you!” her eyes scream.

The tears pour down my face, hot and fast, like a meteor. “I’m scared,” I sob uncontrollably and snot runs down onto my lips. I know I look disgusting like this, but at the moment, I don’t care. I need this. I need to tell someone. I need to let it all out. But I am so… scared.

“It’s okay,” she assures me and comes around the table to sit beside me. She wraps an arm around my shoulders. The movement feels protective. I feel safe at this moment.

“Sometimes at night…” I begin and sobs overtake my body again. She waits patiently, not the slightest bit of irritation on her face. “Sometimes at night my dad comes into my room and he hurts me,” I cry, my voice breaking at the end. I curl into Tiffany’s arms and let the sobs wreck me. I let them tear me into a million little pieces until I am nothing but dust.

And I wonder to myself if I will ever be put back together again.