Little Girl

It happened to her because every adult in her life failed her.

I didn’t really know her. She would come in about once a week with the group home she was in. I do know she was quiet, sweet, smart, and deeply needing affection and approval. I also knew she was 15 and she liked my purple hair.

For some reason she was at the library alone that night. I have no idea why. I think she knew the two guys she started walking around with. One of the boys clearly saw the part of her he could take advantage of and circled in like a shark. I watched it all with mild curiosity. Later when she went out back with the boy one of the other librarians saw her sneak out with him. She came up to the rest of us and made a snarky comment. One of us should have went out to check on her.

I saw the boy come back in and got his friend to leave. I don’t remember thinking anything of it. I saw her come back in a bit later and I remember thinking she looked a bit dazed. Then I saw her crying. I wondered what was wrong with her but I didn’t interfere. She started talking to another boy she knew and cried harder. He started hugging her and taking care of her. I remember being relieved that someone else was doing it. She used the phone and wandered around crying for a bit. I never once stopped to ask her if everything was okay.

She came to us. She told us she needed help because he had raped her. I didn’t get up and give her my chair but when she sat on the ground I saw the blood. I got on the floor with her. I don’t know if it was right or just weird. My co-worker called the police and handled the crowd while I sat in the floor with her.

I don’t know why the blood changed things for me. Before she was some moody little teenager that was probably having some silly boy trouble but after I saw the blood she became a little girl in a lot of pain. I did the only thing I knew to do and held her while she cried. I don’t remember what we talked about but I am sure I told her all the things we tell people in pain.

The woman from the group home came in and looked at her on the floor with me and immediately started pacing while making phone calls. I don’t blame her. I know she was probably had a billion reports to make and balls to start running. So I stayed on the floor with this little girl while she cried.

I got up when the police and ambulance got there. I don’t remember why I got up but I know I yelled at a few younger people who were staring. We should have closed the library that night, then again, there were a lot of things we should have done. Anyway,  when I walked back into the room she was still on the floor with all these men standing around her staring and asking questions. That pissed me off for some reason so I pushed one aside and said “Someone should be on the floor with her.” I crawled back beside her.

As she left I asked her if she was going to be strong and tell them what happened. I told her I was proud of her for being so brave.

I have seen her a few times since that night. She seems to be okay. I want to stop her and ask her a million questions. I want to know how she is really doing. I want her to know how proud of her I am and how sorry I am that it happened to her. I never will say those things to her though. It is that strange distance society places on people. I am afraid of intruding or making her feel awkward. I am afraid that I am that crazy woman that sat on the floor with her the night something happened to her.

It was over a year ago and I still think of her often. I think she would be surprised if she knew how much she changed my life. I am still amazed about how much strength and grace a fifteen year old girl could possess. Maybe one day I will be able to tell her that and that I am damn proud of her.