Amelia sits quiet for half an hour. In that half an hour she picks at bandage on her bare thigh. After half an hour of silence, she finally lets out a sigh. She begins to speak.

“I was fully happy once,” she says; “for what feels like a second. It feels like a second every time a smell, sound, or taste reminds me of a moment. I smell the cinnamon, hear my mother’s laughter, and water fills my mouth.” Amelia winces. “But then the faceless little girl on my shoulder pinches my neck and reminds me that I am only playing house… It was longer than a second; those years upon years that growing patiently in the joys of innocence often brings. But years upon years feel like less than a second when the pinch of a short painful memory stings.

“I call her Leah, the girl on my shoulder. She forces me to drink from tea cups filled with the painful minutes of that one short painful memory. And while I drink, she often cries in my ear in soft whimpers so loud that they drown out the sounds of the laughter of the happy children of the past. There were many times I tried to stop her crying so I could listen. I’ve told her to be a child; to go play. But Leah thinks that sadness is safer; that if I’m sheltered in a cell of sadness no one can break my skin of porcelain glass.

“I chipped my thigh to see what was beneath; if my insides were as empty as they feel at night. I saw small children, happy little girls, inside playing happily in a bed of little white daisies. The daisies reached for me and quickly grew through the crack. The children tried to climb the daisies to simply say hello. I thought of helping them and reached for them, but before I could, Leah jumped from my shoulder and pushed the happy children back.

“I’ve told others of this child, this Leah who never leaves, who chases away the happier, younger children away. Leah who thinks that shame protects her from pain and joy makes her naïve. I’ve been asked by those I’ve told who I think she might be. I’ve never seen her face. I’ve always looked away, because I never want to see. I named her Leah to make her someone else, but deep down I’ve always known that little faceless girl afraid of joy is me.”

Amelia looks at Leah. Amelia says, “I’m so, so sorry that for years upon years upon years I pretended you weren’t hurt and you weren’t here.” Leah’s crying stops. She hugs Amelia’s neck, then climbs back into her ear.

~ Adana Harris