How many girls go through hell around us and none of us see them?

I look at the white pages in front of me, completely devoid of emotion. And I would love to be angry the way I was yesterday. I would love to find the strength for the flosses that would make us all react again … somehow. But I can’t find the words.

Anyway, nothing I write here, nothing we say anywhere, nothing we do from now on will not change the fact that we have already failed. And it’s too late. At least for this girl and for anyone who’s ever had anything like that happen. And for every woman who has suffered violence and abuse and for every person in this country who has been abused by either the individual or the system or we as a society.

We failed. In a thousand ways and on thousand levels.

How will she ever escape from herself and the burden of everything she has experienced? How will she ever get over it? How can you survive and outlast something like that? How deep is the abyss now inside, and how much sense do our lost battles make?

How does she look at all this with her childish, but yet prematurely and forcefully adult eyes? Does she see in us allies who have realized how much they have failed to protect her, or does she see naivetés extinguishing the endless fire with drops of water gathered in joined palms?

What are the nights in her mind? What are the mornings on her skin and what are the concussions in her fragile bones? Are they crying? Or did the tears dry up? Is she ashamed even though the shame is what she should by no means feel… not her and not what she has been through. Will society recognize her as a heroine who survived hell or will she be turn into a slut, as we have turned so many victims many times before?

What are her eyes like? Is there any more color left in them? Is there any indication of a spark of vibrancy that might one day come back?

What are her hands like? Do they fall defenseless next to her body, or are they seeking comfort? Do we offer it? Do we hug that broken, overwhelmed and abandoned child with our whole heart because we have brought her into a position where she had no one to turn to? Does she get up on her fragile feet, does she have the strength for a step or two? Can she eat and sleep at all? How will she survive this?

And how will we? Whatever we do, whoever we condemn, whatever law we enforce, however much we protest, it is already late. And all the power of this realization embarrasses me as a woman, as a person and as a human.

I sit here, looking into my hands, into my long thin fingers, feeling all the force of injustice done, and wondering how many girls in this world are there who, day after day, are just trying to survive such hell?

How many of them return home to the abusive parents every day? How many of them are shaking with the realization that she will be dragged back into bed while everyone else is sleeping or pretending not to hear or see what is happening?

How many are afraid to leave the house and head for school in the morning because they know that their peers are already harassed by their peers who have already abused them, by neighbors who have intercepted and groped them, by teachers who raped them?

How many children are there who suffer this and have no one to tell?

They have no one to trust … and are left alone, day after day, night after night, from endless agony to another? As we sit in our warm homes, drink our afternoon coffees, lead our carefree lives, comment on football, politics and society, think about the credits we have raised for stupidity and sigh because we have it “hard” in life.

And we miss being human and do something … anything for those kids? Our children…

I wonder, can we really forgive all our failures? Can we? The painful fact remains that many did not even blink at this, but just continued to live.