Outside My Window: (Memoirs of a Teenage Author)

(This is post #2 of the My Journey to Gritty: Memoirs of a Teenage Author series)

I mentioned in my last post (Rose Petals) that my family lived in a trailer park on the bad side of town.
Well… while we were living there I discovered how bad this world could be.
Since I was a good, homeschooled girl, raised in a nice neighborhood for most of my childhood, I had never really met the reality of modern life face-to-face. When we went to visit Dad at the college, he told us not to pick up the little bags of white powder on the school lawn because they had drugs in them, but we didn’t know anyone that actually shot up on the stuff.
Moving to a trailer park exposed me to a lot quick though.


I remember riding bikes with my younger brother one evening through the park. My heart pricked inside of me when I saw a sign in one of the trailer’s windows, advertising that a palm reader had set up shop there.
“Oh Lord… touch her… Help her see you,” I whispered before suddenly getting the shock of my life.
One of the teenage boys standing along the street we were riding on had just flashed his body at me.
I just about fell off my bike. My prayers jumbled into each other and nausea rose in my throat as I pedaled away from him as fast as I could. 
Nasty kid…
We hurried home, ate supper, went to bed. I curled up with my little sister and tried to go to sleep.
There was a car that kept driving around the trailer park though. It had its volume turned all the way up, but wasn't playing ordinary music. All I could hear was the boom-boom-booming sound of some deep, deep instrument, and weird tribal-type chanting.
To this day, I still declare that there was something seriously messed up about the owner of that car. Every couple nights he’d drive around our area with his volume cranked up like that, and every time he came close to my room I’d start shaking in terror. It was the creepiest thing.

One night though, I heard more than just strange music.
Somewhere, out in the darkness, close to my window, a girl started screaming. She must have been about my age, and she was really scared.
I instantly thought, I should go tell Dad.
Defending the weak was a really big deal to my father. I knew that if he heard what I was hearing, then he would immediately charge out to the girl’s rescue.
But… fear suddenly consumed me. I thought about the wicked people that partied around the trailer park. I imagined Dad going out there and getting shot for interfering.
That would be horrible.
My fear grew.
I told myself that the girl was probably just playing. I even thought that maybe the girl was a flirt that deserved a good spook. I covered my head with my pillow and told myself I couldn’t do anything about the situation again and again, until she stopped screaming.
I’m still terribly ashamed about that night.
That experience has tainted my writing. I never wish to hush up about a mistreated victim again.
No matter what I lose, no matter how uncomfortable and frightening it is.
Abuse happens to real people every night, but I never, ever want it to happen outside my window again.

Maia looked sheepish before confessing, “In all honesty, I have never saw myself as a wretched woman in need of grace before. I have always been a pretty good girl.”
“I have a feeling that over these next couple weeks, you’ll see more of the selfishness of your soul and the need for grace in your life than you could have ever imagined.” I wryly informed her.

Click here to read the next post in this series: Braided Prayers

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