TO TAME THE DARKNESS

PROLOGUE:

Hi, my name is Diane Bailey, and I am 26 years old now and all this started when I was in my teens or maybe before that and till this day not many people know about it and the story I will tell might be triggering so be warned. You might think why I am writing these now well of lately memories have been come back and its time I face those repressed memories long forgotten and so this might be a true or fictional story we never know so let's begin. So I come from a family of four including parents and a little sister, I would like to talk about them for a moment so my parents Stephan Bailey and Faith Bailey and they had their past but I will get to that later, my sister Ethel bailey and we don't see eye to eye but this days I fear for her that she might follow my path and I was lucky then but she might not be. Read this chapter at your time and believe what you want as I said these might be fiction or truth hidden and maybe I gave you fake names who knows.......

CHAPTER ONE:1999

I was only eight when the world first betrayed me.

At first, I didn’t have the words. Just a feeling—like something had been taken, something I couldn’t name. Over the years, the silence grew louder. Each time it happened, it carved deeper into my sense of safety, her sense of self. She learned to smile through the ache, to laugh in rooms where my voice felt like a stranger.

But I was never just what was done to me.

I was the girl who painted sunsets with my fingers, who knew how to make her my sister giggle until she snorted. I was the girl who read poetry under my blanket with a flashlight, who dreamed of becoming a lawyer so I could protect others the way no one had protected me.

my story isn’t just about pain. It’s about survival. About the courage it takes to speak when the world teaches you to stay quiet. About reclaiming your body, your voice, your future. I learned early how to disappear without leaving the room.

In school, I sat in the back, my hand never raised. Teachers called me “quiet,” “shy,” “a daydreamer.” But inside, my mind was a storm memory I couldn’t name, feelings I couldn’t explain. She didn’t know how to say, “I’m not okay.” So, I became a master of pretending.

At home, I folded myself into corners. my mother was always tired. my father was always gone. And the people who hurt me? They wore smiles in public. They were trusted. They were untouchable.

But i wasn’t broken. Not really.

I started writing in secret. Little poems on scraps of paper. Letters to no one. I wrote what she couldn’t say. And slowly, the words became a lifeline. A way to make sense of the chaos. A way to reclaim my story.

One day, I told someone. Just one person. And they believed me.

That moment cracked something open. Not just the silence—but the shame. The lie that it was my fault. The lie that I was alone.

Healing didn’t come all at once. It came in pieces. In therapy sessions where I cried without knowing why. In friendships that taught me trust could be gentle. In nights where I finally slept without fear.

I still carry scars. But they don’t define me.

I am a survivor. A storyteller. A girl who turned pain into power. Enough of all this let's get into how it all began

It started with someone I was told to trust.

He was always around—family, familiar, safe. That’s what made it so confusing. The first time, I didn’t understand. I only knew something felt wrong. His hands lingered too long. His voice changed when no one else was listening. And when I tried to pull away, he smiled like it was a game. I didn’t tell anyone. Not because I didn’t want to but because i didn’t know how. I was just eight.

Then it happened again. And again. Not just him. Others. Different faces, same silence. They found me in moments when no one was watching. They used my fear like a key. And every time, i folded a little more into myself.

I began to believe it was normal. That maybe this was just what happened to girls like me. That maybe i was the problem.

But deep down, something refused to die.

A flicker of defiance. A whisper that said, “This is not your fault.” It took years for that whisper to grow loud enough to be heard. Years of shame, of pretending, of carrying a weight no child should bear.

When I finally spoke, the world didn’t shatter. It shifted.

Some people didn’t believe me. Some turned away. But others leaned in. Held my hand. Told me I was brave. Told me I was worthy.

And slowly, I began to believe it.

CHAPTER TWO: UNCLE RAY' S SMILE

I had learned early that monsters didn’t always hide in the dark. Sometimes they wore cologne and smiled too much.

There was Uncle Ray, my mother’s cousin. He’d always bring me sweets and call me “princess.” But his hands lingered too long, and his voice turned sharp when I pulled away. He told me it was our secret. That secrets meant love. I was eight when Uncle Ray moved into the spare room. my mother said he’d fallen on hard times, and family helps family. He helped with groceries, fixed the leaky faucet, and always brought me my favorite strawberry gum.

At first, he felt like a warm blanket safe, familiar. He’d call me “princess” and braid my hair, and I don't even know how he learnt to do that while humming old songs. But soon, the warmth turned heavy.

He started locking the door when we were alone. He’d sit too close, whisper things that made my stomach twist. His compliments felt sticky, like syrup poured over something rotten.

One night, he told me that love meant sharing secrets. That I was old enough to understand grown-up things. I didn’t understand, but I knew something was wrong. I froze. I stayed quiet. I learned how to disappear without leaving the room.

He made me promise not to tell. Said my mother wouldn’t believe me and he wasn't lying. Said it would tear the family apart.

So, I carried it. In silence. In shame. In the way I stopped smiling in photos. In the way I flinched when someone touched my shoulder.

Chapter Title: The Last Time WITH UNCLE RAY

It ended the way most storms do not with peace, but with wreckage.

I was twelve when I finally told someone after four years of suffering. Not with words, but with silence that cracked open. Ms. Hart had asked her a simple “Are you safe at home?” And I didn’t answer. I just cried. And how Ms. Hart knew to ask me that question I still don't know maybe she sensed it

The school counselor got involved. Then child services. Then the police.

Uncle Ray was arrested. He denied everything. Said I was confused. Said I was troubled. But the evidence spoke louder than his lies. But he never paid for what he did because they didn't believe and neither did my mum which hurt, and she blamed me.

He was advised to leave the house. Sent away. My mother never forgave me. Said I ruined the family. Said Ray was the only one who ever helped them.

I didn’t want to see his face again. Or remember his sentences, every denial. Every excuse.

The silence in the house was louder than any siren. Uncle Ray was gone, and with him, the last thread of protection I had clung to. My mother didn’t speak she spat. Words like knives, each syllable sharper than the last.

“You think I wanted you?” she hissed, eyes glassy with rage. “You ruined everything. Just like your father. Just like Ray.”

I didn’t cry. Not anymore. I ’d learned that tears only made her angrier.

I wandered the streets that night, my coat too thin for the cold, my thoughts too loud for sleep. That’s when Mr. Hart found me, his voice soft, his eyes kind. He said he’d been looking for me but why would he look for me in the night. Said he knew what it felt like to be discarded.

“I’m not like the others,” he promised. I believed him.

He brought me inside, offered warmth, food, a place to rest because I couldn't go back to that house. For a moment, I let herself breathe. But kindness, I learned, was often just a mask. And Mr. Hart wore his well.

The shift was subtle. A hand on my shoulder that lingered too long. A question that felt more like a trap. The room grew smaller, the air thicker. I tried to leave, but the door was locked.

“You owe me,” he said, voice no longer gentle. “After everything I’ve done for you.”

My heart pounded, my mind racing. I wasn’t safe. Not here. Not with him. Not with anyone.

I escaped through the bathroom window, barefoot and bleeding, the night swallowing me whole. The city didn’t care. It never had. But I ran anyway because running was the only thing, I’d ever been good at.

I didn’t want to go back. Every step toward that house felt like swallowing glass. But where else could I go? The streets didn’t want me. Mr. Hart sure as hell didn’t in a way i would have liked. And Uncle Ray… he’s locked away, probably still thinking he could have me.

The porch light was off when I got there. Mom didn’t say anything when she opened the door just stared like I was a stain she couldn’t scrub out. I slept on the couch. She didn’t ask where I’d been.

By morning, the whispers had already started.

“That’s the girl whose uncle got arrested.”

“Her mom’s the one who screamed at her in the parking lot.”

“I heard she ran off with some man.”

We were the talk of the town. Again. Like we always are. Like we always will be.

Mom packed up two days later. Said we were moving. Said she couldn’t take the looks anymore. Said it was my fault.

I didn’t argue. I just stared at the boxes and wondered if fresh paint and a new zip code could erase the rot underneath.

Now we’re here. New town. New school. New lies to tell.

I keep telling myself this is a fresh start. That maybe this time I won’t be the girl with the haunted eyes and the bruises no one asks about. That maybe someone will see me before they judge me.

But deep down, I know the darkness didn’t stay behind. It followed me. It always does.

New town. New school. New mask.

Mom didn’t say goodbye when she dropped me off. Just stared ahead like I was cargo she couldn’t wait to unload. I stood outside the gates for ten minutes pretending I was early. Truth was, I was scared. Not of the school. Of the stories that would follow me here.

I walked in and felt it instantly that hum of judgment. Eyes scanning, whispers forming. They didn’t know me yet, but they would. They always do.

I kept my head down. Sat in the back. Answered nothing. Smiled at no one.

But then, in third period, a girl named Talia passed me a note. Just a doodle of a cat wearing sunglasses. No words. No expectations. Just… something.

I stared at it for the rest of class like it was a lifeline.

Maybe this place won’t be different. Maybe it’ll be worse. But for a second, I felt something I haven’t felt in weeks.

Not safe. Not seen.

Just… possible.

I still hear the voices from the old town. I still see Mr. Hart’s face when I close my eyes. I still feel the sting of Mom’s words like fresh bruises.

But I’m here. I’m breathing. And I’m writing.

That has to count for something. so, for the first few weeks I didn't talk to people just stayed on my own but one couldn't leave me alone

Aiden.

Even writing his name makes my stomach twist.

He was the golden boy smile like summer, voice like velvet, and eyes that made you forget how cold the world could be. Everyone knew him. Everyone wanted him. And somehow, for one week, he wanted me.

He sat next to me in the cafeteria when no one else would. Walked me to class. Laughed at my jokes like they were actually funny and I never knew I could even make jokes. I thought maybe this town was different. Maybe I was different.

He asked questions no one had ever asked. About my favorite books. My dreams. My scars.

I told him things I hadn’t told anyone. Not even Uncle Ray.

And then came Friday.

I walked into school and everything felt… off. People stared. Whispered. Smirked.

I found my locker covered in sticky notes. “Darkness Girl.” “Hart’s Pet.” “Aiden’s Dare.”

I didn’t understand. Not at first.

Then I saw the video.

Aiden, standing in front of his friends, holding up his phone. “Told you I could make her fall for me in a week. Easy points.”

They laughed.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream.

I just walked out.

Because that’s what I do. I run.

But this time, I didn’t run from the pain. I ran toward something else. Toward the part of me that’s done being used. Done being a game.

They think they know me. They think I’m weak.

Let them.

They haven’t seen what happens when you try to tame the darkness and it tames you back.