Clothes
People stare at me as I walk down the street. They watch me, and point me with their judging fingers without even trying to hide their mockery, and contempt. I am the target of their cruelty when I should be the target of their compassion. Why do they have to be like that?
Pain stabs me like little daggers that suck my energy and force me to walk slowly through the city. I cannot cry. It’s already too embarrassing to have this thing on, so I don’t need to let them take something more from me.
Widows and mournful receive more sympathy from them. I guess it’s because they fear being the next one to lose someone. But, in my case, it is as if they believe they are part of an untouchable group of individuals that will never go through the same thing.
In the Great Office they told me that I was brave for choosing this path for recovery. Some girls simply leave, and continue their lives as if nothing happened, swallowing their own pain and grief. It destroys and eats them from inside, and they eventually sink into a terrible depression that chains them to their beds and soft sheets. Or they flee from life taking the train of suicide. I try to remember those words as I walk, but it’s hard to keep the energy up.
They are all a bunch of hypocrites. They prefer to see me wearing a medal that tells them to have compassion than see me hiding my body. I knew it would be like that, but it’s now when I can see how stupid we all were for making clothes a taboo. It’s not just fashion, it’s security.
But this clan of imbeciles who keep whispering as if I cannot hear them will never understand that.
