Every time I get out of the shower and stand in front of the mirror, my eyes are always drawn to an “L” shaped scar on my neck. I always run my fingers across it as the skin is slightly raised but only on occasion do I think about where it came from.
I was once again alone with nobody on my side. Someone had lied and said that I had hit Cameisha with a glass dish which then shattered on top of her head (evidence of any broken glass was nowhere to be found), and that was the reason for her grabbing me with her talon-like fingernails and throwing me down on the floor. She climbed on top of me and in between yanking my hair and ripping holes in my clothes, she was slicing my face and neck to shreds.
Since our staff did not give two winks about me they took their jolly time coming to break up our fight. When they walked in the room there were six other girls just standing around watching. None of them had the decency to pull this lunatic off of me. After what seemed like forever, one of the staff finally grabbed her. Cameisha immediately feigned upset and distraught and the staff members played right into her little “woe is me” pity party.
I got up and stood there in a corner all alone, coated in blood from the cuts that were covering my face, neck, and arms. Cameisha’s fingernails could easily have been categorized as “lethal weapons” considering the amount of damage that they had caused me.
When the three staff members were done consoling their innocent angel who had been crying crocodile tears and claiming self defense, all of them turned to me. They began shouting at me saying how much trouble I was going to be in for beating her with the dishes (which were indeed non-existant had they even bothered to check) and how I brought all of this on myself.
I immediately ran out the door and down the street. Luckily I had an acquaintance who lived in the neighborhood so when I asked his mother to drive me to my parent’s house, she gladly said yes.
When I got to my parent’s house I walked into the backyard where my mom was stunned at my appearance. I’d imagine I looked somewhat like a modern day version of Frankenstein’s Monster. She asked what happened. As I told her the story she was shocked and angered. Before she cleaned me up she took pictures and said she was going to press charges. Against who? I didn’t know and I didn’t care.
All I could think about was that maybe this was my chance to leave the place where I was continuously being abused. Physically and verbally. Did my parents finally believe me? Did they finally see that I wasn’t lying? How could they not? Just looking at my bloody face and torn clothes was proof of the kind of situation that I was living in. Apparently not proof enough.
Within an hour they had taken me right back to the place where that bloody massacre had just occurred. I was amazed and extremely hurt. How could they bring me back knowing what had just happened to me inside those walls. Their reasoning behind that decision I will never know. I recently asked my mother why she took me back that night and she simply said, “I don’t know.”
For days, weeks, even months I went to school, sporting events, doctor appointments, and everywhere else with cuts and scabs covering my face. At first it was terribly embarrassing to set a foot out the door but eventually it became more and more comfortable and routine.
For multiple years I had small scars that hung around on my cheek, chin, and forehead. Fifteen years later those have faded and the one on my neck is the only one that remains.
It bothered me for a long time. I wished that it would go away as I did not want any reminders of that awful night. Now as time has gone on I am almost glad that it is still there. I look at it and am reminded of that night but now I see things in a different light. Instead of seeing it as something that I suffered through I see it as one more thing that I was strong enough to survive.