Then Remi started speaking.
“The proper thing for me to do, to start off this evening, would be to thank you all for coming. For showing up,” she began.
“But in respect for the actual reason we are here, which is not your egos... I’m not glad or thankful or appreciative.”
The room went still.
“We shouldn’t have to be here. I shouldn’t have to stand on thisstage and tell you why it is not okay that a twenty-year-old woman was murdered in a space that should’ve been safe, by a man who said he loved her.”
A few people gasped. Some murmured.
“Sofia Cross was so much more than a statistic,” Remi said. “She was brave. She was sweet. She wore long sleeves even in summer, a habit she picked up to cover the bruises. She was all kinds of crass once she got to know you. She asked for help, as most of you would assume, in all the wrong ways. She finally saw the value in herself. Saw her worth. She’d signed up for college and had asked to work with Ava and I after graduation. Because she wanted to be to someone for someone else, like we were to her.”
The room held its breath.
“I’m not here to give you comfort,” Remi said. “That’s not what this event is for. The Carter Sinclair Clinic was never about making people feel good about their ignorance. It was about making them feel accountable. About holding up a mirror to the world and asking if you like what you see staring back. About being there when no one else is. About believing the stories no one else wants to hear and being a constant for people who never knew that existed.”
A flicker of discomfort moved through the crowd.
Good, I thought.
She’s not here to soothe.
She’s here to scorch.
“I’ve sat across from girls who’ve been traded like property. Listened to how motorcycle clubs treat women like a commodity. Boys who think silence or violence are the only safe answers. I’ve heard mothers lie for the men who broke their children. And I’ve held hands in ERs while victims asked if they were strong enough to press charges against someone who said they loved them.”
A murmur in the crowd. Chairs shifted. Someone quietly wiped their face.
“Ava and I built this clinic, this community, because the world keeps creating the same kind of trauma and blaming the people it breaks. We built it because Band-Aids don’t fix bullet holes. Because system failure isn’t a fluke. It’s a pattern.”
And there it was.
The turn.
“This clinic isn’t just a sanctuary,” Remi said. “It’s a warning. A rebellion. A brick through the window of apathy. So, if you came here tonight expecting pleasantries and sugar-coated excuses, you’re in the wrong room and you should probably leave.”
Someone actually gasped.
Remi didn’t flinch.
“People ask me what it feels like to do this work. To stand for those others would rather forget. And the truth is... It’s like trying to hold the line. Alone. The line stretches on forever, and in front of you is every monster you’ve ever been told to fear. And behind you is everything you love. Every victim. Every survivor. Every person who was told they didn’t matter.”
I looked around.
Breath's hitched.
Eyes shone.
“That’s what it feels like to do what we do.”
Remi scanned the room, holding people’s eyes until they looked away.
“So, what is tonight for? It’s for the girls who didn’t make it out. For the ones still texting old numbers and hoping the man who broke them says he’s sorry. For the ones who stay because they were taught love excuses pain. For the boys who were told not to cry. For the ones too tired to scream and too scared to leave.”
She paused. Let it breathe.
“I won’t stop. Not when it’s inconvenient. Not when it’s ugly. Not when the same badge meant to protect becomes a shield for silence. I won’t stop. Because the monsters never will.”
