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“Do you want to talk about how it makes you feel?”I suggest gently, stepping carefully on the fragile ground of her emotions.
Her breath hitches, then staggers into a raw sound that sends a jolt through me.Suddenly, she’s hugging herself and releasing a flood of pent-up tears.
“This was it.It was the moment when I was going to reclaim my voice, tell my truth, to break the silence before the judge, the jury, and everyone in the fucking room,” she chokes out between gasping sobs, words splintering in the air.“And now ...Even if Mom didn’t believe me, I hoped the rest of the world would.I wanted to see him caged like the animal he was.But ...”
The rage in her eyes catches me off guard.She’s always so quiet, but now she’s ready to seek vengeance.
“I’m angry.There’s raw, unfiltered anger inside me,” she spits out.“I’m furious at him, at my mother, and at whoever killed him—stealing my rightful opportunity to seek justice.”
Her anger, potent and consuming, permeates the air, a tangible force that ripples through me, stirring a quake within my own soul.I’m not supposed to react.My job is to listen and help, stay detached, but I can’t.It’s almost impossible.I stare at the landscape on the wall, then at the candle flickering, and finally take one last breath, reminding myself that this is Lucy’s time.
“I needed them to hear me.”She crumbles, dissolving into racking sobs.“All I needed was for them to listen.Now, my story will die with him. Everyone will think that monster is innocent—and died because I accused him of something he never did.”
Her truth resonates with a deafening echo, shaking the foundations of my own past.A story that is worth telling.The imposed silence on victims is a form of torture.
Silence can be deadly.
Silence is exactly what killed my sister.
Silence is the treacherous accomplice that held me captive in my own personal hell, prolonging my journey back from the depths of despair.
And maybe the time has finally come for someone to tell the story—for someone to listen to our truth.
My sister is gone, but our story is alive.Stashed under the memories I don’t want to remember, buried beneath layers of forgotten dust within a nondescript storage unit in Brooklyn.
The diary holds all her pain and probably our secrets.It’s been patiently awaiting an audience—a voice.I touch my throat, knowing it has to be me.It has to be my voice that tells it all.
“We will make sure the world knows he wasn’t innocent,” I assure Lucy, but is this promise only for her or also ...?
And so many of these women, of us, have to keep quiet, our stories forgotten and never told.I recall the words of our handler: “It’s best if it remains buried.”
But he was wrong.Attempting to bury all the facts didn’t bring us peace.In fact, it resulted in the loss of everything we held dear, as we blindly followed his orders.I’m uncertain how to fulfill my promise to Lucy, but I’ll find a way.
Once my last patient of the day departs, I lock the office door behind me.It’s time to break the chains of silence, to give voice to those who can’t speak for themselves.My sister deserves this, as do countless others who have been silenced by the weight of their pain.
I take the subway.Upon reaching the station, a woman plays the violin on a distant corner.I pause for a few seconds to listen to the mournful notes threading through the air, weaving a melody that strikes a poignant chord within me, as if the universe approves of the step I’m about to take.
Speak up for everything we’ve lost.
For our loved ones.
For us.
When I arrive at the storage unit, I take a deep breath.The key slips into the lock, the clink booming, warning me of the gravity of what I’m about to do.With a deep breath, I pull up the metallic curtain.The sharp scent of musty cardboard and aged leather hits me as memories resurrect, ghosts of a past I’ve been able to push away for years and I’m about to bring back to this world.
A pile of neatly stacked boxes calls to me.That’s where I meticulously saved the little belongings we had left days after she decided to ...I briefly close my eyes, not wanting to remember those moments.This isn’t the story about the end, but the beginning and the middle.
I reach for a cardboard box, its edges softened with age.As I lift the lid, I see it.The well-loved pink diary is all worn out.The book feels almost sacred under my trembling fingers—our story, waiting to be told.
Her and my memories.Our lives ...The losses.
I find a spot on the cold, concrete floor and place her diary in my lap.My heart pounds like a drum, breaking the silence.I am determined to share our story.This will be almost as hard as the journey I took while healing from everything that happened to us.
As I open the first page, I recognize that this marks the start of a fresh chapter, not only for me but also for all the quiet voices longing to be heard.
Will this put anyone in danger?I hope not.My only goal is to be a voice and to bring peace to those who can’t find it, includingher.
ChapterOne
