Chị Q knows me well, because we shared the same pain in the past. Thank you chị!
I see myself there, once again as a nine-year-old innocent child. I became mute for years until I had the courage to share my story.
this was what i told him. it was the end of the summer of ’79. i was eleven. i didn’t scream. i didn’t struggle. i was motionless. when it was over, i stood in the shower for a long time. the water went from hot to lukewarm to cold. i didn’t see the bruises on my thighs until the next morning. that was when i cried.
…the following morning deanne placed a new purse- a bermuda bag with a cover embroided with green turtles- on my bed and a box of maxi pads. next to these items was a pair of my underwear, washed and neatly folded into a square. i had twisted them, crotch stiff with blood, inside a sheet of newspaper and thrown them away. this and other moments in my life have taught me that the trash was where you placed what you wanted to be found, whether you knew it or not. if you wanted a thing to disappear entirely, you burned it.
(monique truong- bitter in the mouth)