R is for Redemption. Chapter 1

R is for Redemption

I wonder how this al happened. Why I was in a court room crying my eyes out to the defendant's attorney and the judge who sat beside me. I was probably another sob story they all heard before. It makes me bitter. I just want this torture to be over. I'm just a fourteen year old, sophomore in high school, trying to talk about a day she'll always want to escape.

"Tell us what happened, Miss Amelia," Mr. Whitcher's attorney has a stern look, a professional look. Mr. Whitcher isn't showing any concern towards my crying, instead he's smiling. Smiling like he did when he told me everything would be alright. That he wouldn't hurt me.

And this isn't hurt?

I just sit on the stand, all eyes on me. I have to say something but my voice is locked within my throat. If I don't talk, Mr. Whitcher will get away with what he did to me, probably what he did to a myriad of girls, afraid to receive his perturbed smile and gaze as they sit on stand like I do. I want to shout about what he did to me. His fingers working quickly to pull my clothes off of me, him grabbing me to stop me from running away, his body on top of me, the unbearable pain I experienced and the screams that erupted from my throat but went unheard that day- that night. My perpetual night. When he was done he wouldn't move and my sobs were heavy. I wanted to move but he denied me that ability. My mind was blank and all he was saying was: "I'm sorry Amelia. Amelia, I don't know why I did that." He was caressing my cheek like saying sorry would make it OK. Like saying sorry would bring back what he had stolen from me.

He stole everything from me. My mother won't even say anything to me. It must be so pitiful. I want to scream louder than I did on that night, October 17th, 2007. The smile is still on his face and my stomach is churning, ready to release the contents of my lunch.

"Your honor, please instruct Ms. Johnson to answer the question."

He's trying not to grin but I can see him doing it. It makes me angry that he's defending such a disgusting, pitiful man while I, a young girl who did nothing at all, suffers here on stand.

"Please answer the question, young lady." I turn my gaze toward the judge, a feeble looking fellow. He's probably shorter than I, his hair extremely white. What people would call a beard was gray stubbles. I look at the defendant, then at my mother who is chewing on her napkin like she's waiting for me to tell the world my story.

"I..."

"Yes? Speak up, Ms. Amelia," Mr. Whitcher's attorney says. I look to the judge for a bit of help, like he'd be my superman in the moment. A tired, old man who could really care less. In a few days he'll forget this and he'll be happy with his wife. The thought makes me want to laugh inside. Such a bitter moment- I think I'm going crazy. The frown from earlier on the Judge's face is no longer evident. I know he is trying to calm me but he's not doing any good.

Why is Mr. Whitcher's attorney doing this to me? I want to grab him by his red tie and strangle him with it. I can see my pale hands wrapping around his throat, stealing every breath he ever breathed from him. I don't think I've been breathing because I'm feeling very light headed as I stand here, like someone who breathed in too much helium one day...or someone who smokes crack for the first time. It kind of burns at first, but then you just feel...crazy.

"Did Mr. Whitcher actually tough you on the night of October 17th, or are you lying to the court, Amelia?"

Now everything is getting hard to understand. Mr. Whitcher's attorney is staring me down like a wolf about to snap the neck of a rabbit.

I pull the front of my black shirt away from my body in an attempt to calm and cool down. I look at Mr. Whitcher, feeling so delirious. I know that they can probably see how crazy I'm going right now, too...The whole world is disappearing. My mind is growing fuzzy but I open my mouth to speak against him, the man who everyone in this town trusted and loved. He watched children, helped with every subject and now I was standing against him. I wish someone would steal me away, save me. I cover my eyes and cover my forehead with my left forearm.

My God the light is hot...

My mind is suddenly crying for rest and every voice talking is muted, Mr. Whitcher's attorney, the judge and the murmur of the crowd that watches, interested to find out whether the sob story of a teen is true or a joke, another flop that teenage girls my age make when their parents don't pay enough attention to them or they have sex with their boyfriends for the first time and regret what they did with the person they did it with.

My head leans backwards and my arm is suddenly away from my face- I'm running my fingers up. My palm lightly stroking my forehead as my fingers make their way through my jet black hair. I open my mouth to speak again but it feels so dry, like I've been licking sand. I can't even cough- my throat feels like it's been bleeding. I look at my mother, I see everything.

I see her shame.

Her disappointment.

I see me.

Her daughter.

But not for long because I can't hold my weight anymore and my chest feels ready to explode. My right hand grips the front of my chest as my left hand grabs a lock of my hair in an attempt to brush off the pain that seems unending. I begin stepping off the stand, I'm feeling delirious. The lights surrounding me are setting my body on fire. I try to level myself on the court room floor but my body falls to the floor and my mind shatters, leaving everything as black as night.


In my dreams, I'm back where it started. I look pretty, calm and collected. My black hair flows nicely down my back wit ha silver streak in my hair on the right side. I did that over the summer when I visited my grandmother in California. My grandmother gives me the freedom that my mother so clearly despises. Being 1/2 Asian doesn't exactly mean I have a wonderful mother. She's completely Indian and though I'm 1/2 white, too, she won't let me forget the fact that I'm Indian- that some day some man is going to marry me and he has to be successful and wonderful- everything a mother

would ever want her daughter to have. I must always be proud of what I am.

Mr. Johansen, my advanced English teacher, doesn't want to see me fail. Something about me being a skilled writer. So I go to his English tutorial every Thursday, something about "letting a great future die too quickly" gets to me.

I walk to room 309 from my locker on the first floor. The halls are always congested after school and I'm glad the tutorial is at six, then I can get through and there's no one to bash right into me as I walk. It's usually full because the first floor is where the sophomore and fresh men lockers are. It's irritating and complaints are made daily to the administrators of the school who refuse to do anything about it because juniors and seniors apparently need their space.

They skipped me up a grade when I was 13, so I feel upset. I'm rather small compared to the giants of this grade. I'm only about 5"5 and the students here look so tall. Some aren't even taller than me, the heels that they wear make them taller than me and I'd rather not walk home with a shoe print on my side. I'm an only child so to make any enemies would mean I'm on my own besides my friends who are all freshmen. They don't want to fight any sophomores, they'll be too afraid- they'd have their nails out and ready like kitty cats but as soon as they see the sophomores, they'd run like a dog was after them and instead of being brave about it like a normal cat would be, they'd hide somewhere.

So room 309 is on the third floor and I'm tired as hell from walking up all those stairs, I half want to kill the principle who said that we weren't allowed to use the elevators because, 'it's unhealthy' and 'you're all teens! Some of you are becoming adults, it's easy for you to walk up stairs- don't be lazy' along with the lovely 'obesity is so common now a days with teens and I'm not going to be responsible for an insane number of students gaining too much weight.' The lights in room 309 are on and I'm feeling tired, I'm glad I'll be able to sit for an hour. That means I can rest up a bit before running down the stairs again.

When I walk in, Mr. Whitcher's at a desk grading papers. "Um...MR. Whitcher, where's Martin, Samantha, Drake, Raven and everyone else from tutorial...?" My voice isn't frail, I'm not afraid of Mr. Whitcher, something in the air makes me afraid. The cold I never realized before makes me rub my arms. I'm wearing a black vest with a black beater under it so the V cut doesn't show anything and I don't get in trouble for "Inappropriate clothing." I'm wearing shorts, my favorite black and red ones. I'm athletic and a tomboy, I can't help it- plus it's ninety degrees outside and the sun is still strong in the sky so I can't exactly get off wearing black jeans that are tighter than my skin without roasting in the sun.

Mr. Whitcher pushes back the seat he's sitting at and looks at me, acting surprised. "Oh! Amelia! It's you! Well," he walks towards me from his seat, smiling as he says, "there's no tutorial today, sorry for the false information I provided. Would you like to sit and grade papers with me?" his eyes close as he smiles and I can see why a countless number of girls admire him.

He's got a is pack and he's like 26. His brown hair is so sexy...He gels it and peaks it in the front. It makes one of my classmates, Lucia, daydream about him. She gets so intimate she moans and when the class turns to look at her, she asks to go to the bathroom so she can escape the spotlight she's given herself, pushing her blond hair back in a dignified manner.

He wears jeans instead of suits, what other teachers like to wear. I think it gives him a sense of humanity- like he’s trying to let us know that not all teachers are vampires like students so churlishly think. Sometimes we like to think that teachers go to school to make us as miserable as they are, then they go home and they sleep in coffins.

He’s unique.

I watch Mr. Whitcher walk back over to his seat and he beckons me to the seat beside him, still smiling brightly.

Unknowing of his plan or what thoughts run through his head, I walk, my black and white converse drawing a trail to my destruction. Mid dream, a beeping noise enters. It brings a constant drag of noises, and my dream self continues to walk to Mr. Whitcher while my mind watches, screaming for her to stop in voices large and small. Finally, my own voice is the only voice screaming at her to stop.