Silent Tears

When I was a child, I was involved in a ritualistic sacrifice. Seven other children all of my age were killed in a most vicious of methods, and I was next in line. The campfire below us smelled of fox and steaming bone, its sparks crackling in the night's low hum. The thing I can no longer think of as a man put his hand behind my back and led me up to the bloodstained tree where my friends met their disgusting fates. He told me to put my hands on the tree, and I had seen what was left of my friend Suzanne-- she had resisted, and the lung on the branch above my head was the result of this-- so I complied, the heat of the campfire drying my silent tears away.

A crying child is often considered to be one of the biggest nuisances of the modern world, but few people know that it's dangerously close to one of the most terrifying sights in all of history. If ever in your travels you should happen upon a child who is crying in silence, goosebumps should befall your frail body. Most children yell and scream when they cry, as they want your attention, they want you to fix a problem. It is only once a child has seen life's "innocence," when a child knows no one can fix their problem and had enough time for it to sink in along with the rest of life's pathetic cynicism, that a child will cease screaming and allow the quiet of their tears to be their only comfort.

I was about to die. I could hear the branches shifting to allow for another cadaver. I have no idea what that thing formerly known as man was planning on doing with us after the sacrifice, nor am I ever certain how many more children there were lined up behind me, nor will I ever be sure what it was about that beast that convinced all of us to follow him into the dusk of the woods in the first place; all I know for certain is that I got out of this alive. An officer of the local police department walked in on this, and the complete monster connived its way out of trouble by running off into the woods.

The police never located him. They put up a search for a lanky male with filthy blonde hair and an unnaturally clean business suit, we survivors tried our hardest to describe his face to the best of our abilities and the sketch artist had his piece photocopied; that bastard's face had to have been plastered all over towns in every direction. But he was never found. His face haunts my nights, and I can no longer remain on my own for more than a day. I'm afraid he'll find me.

Sixteen years have passed, and I got a job in the police force. I want to save lives like the hero who saved me. But I still have frequent flashbacks. My therapist advised me I should write about my experiences, so I made this blog.

My name is Veronica, and I'm after the thing people used to call a man.