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Innocence (1 Viewer)


Senior Member
Innocence. There is something about innocence that is indescribable. We try, but fail miserably. The only trait of innocence that can be described accurately is that it doesn’t last very long. We talk about the ‘grand scale’ like it matters. But it doesn’t. The only person it matters to is the person that is either trying to inflate or deflate a situation. Innocence cannot be maintained.

Innocence. What do you think of? Innocence. White dresses. Babies fresh from the womb. Little smiles. Bright eyes. Intact hymens. Weddings. Innocence. Innocence eventually shattering. That’s what I see. Eventually, something comes along and completely obliterates innocence. It seems we all live in guilt. How long can innocence be maintained? What things would have to be done? There would have to be complete isolation. Even isolation from one’s own mind. Impossible.

Innocence should last longer than it does. In the world there are too many obstacles for innocence to overcome. Innocence always loses. It always leaves. It mostly leaves prematurely. Before the innocent is ready to be guilty. To be corrupt. It even leaves unwillingly. I think that’s what has spawned this whole foray into innocence. It can be taken. It has been taken. It is being taken. You don’t own your innocence. The person that takes it away does. Not everyone gets to own innocence.

Little smiles. On happy little faces. A little girl standing in a pink tutu, a piece of the material between both hands so her skirt is lifted. Blonde hair. A small nose. Little pink lips. Blue eyes to die for. To live for. To do anything for, if it would keep them as innocent and bright as they are. But no the years pass, and for this little girl, it doesn’t take many. Now she looks in her own eyes and all she can see is gray. You want to help her find the blue that was taken so forcibly away. To make her little lips smile, and her face become bright. You want to kill who owns her innocence. You want to help her find her light.

A little girl shouldn’t have had to see what she had to see. She shouldn’t have had her innocence taken away. She shouldn’t have to cry, and hide, and scream, and dream horrible things, and see the bad in everything. She shouldn’t have to feel cheated. She shouldn’t have to miss her innocence. She shouldn’t have to know that it’s gone. There’s a darkness that follows close behind her, a darkness that she has grown accustomed to. So accustomed, in fact, that she can make others believe that it’s light. This is the power of innocence. The power that the shame of having lost it at such a young age brings. I won't let it be simple.

Innocence. It lets you fly without thinking about the fall. Without knowing that a fall is even possible. Innocence lets you live in blissful ignorance, and ignorance much sweeter than that which adults experience. It can't be left alone. It isn’t left to be simple. It is taken, you become aware of gravity, you fear the fall.

I can't even say, "Innocence lost". That’s a lie. I know exactly where it is. It still isn’t simple. It was stolen. Ripped away. Torn from my body. And it took other things. Faith. Trust. Smiles. Lust. Closeness. Happiness. Sanity. The blue of my eyes. A part of my soul. And I want it all back more than anything. I want the opportunity to give it away when I'm ready. I want it to be simple. I want to be able to understand. There is no understanding for something like this. I don’t even think the purveyors of guilt understand it. All I know, is that sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see anything at all. Just empty space. It was all taken away. It hurt me so badly, having it taken away. It left me scarred. Indescribably empty and alone. Empty. Because it was gone. Stolen from me.

Little smiles. On happy little faces. They’re still there. There are still little smiles on happy little faces. No one bothers to look, because they don’t expect for anything to be different. They aren’t looking for it. There has been no cry for help, or attention. Just little smiles. Smiles that are too knowing for their age. Smiles that I knew were fake. Smiles I knew that everyone believed. A happy little face. Was it really happy? Is there a difference between an expression of happiness and one of morbid terror? Obviously not. Otherwise it would have been second guessed. I wouldn’t have to have little smiles on my happy little face. I could cry and rant and rave and mourn properly over what was taken away. I would have been more prepared for the hollowness. I could have had someone to share the absolute negative space inside of me. No. Just little smiles on happy little faces.

There are still smiles. Smiles that they believe. Smiles that I know are fake. Even now that they know, they still don’t bother to look. They don’t want to believe that it’s gone. That I’m hollow. I think everyone wants to believe that I was able to regenerate it. Steal it back from him, implant it in my soul. There are still smiles. I cant stop them. I’m screaming on the inside. So loud that I hear it in my own eardrums, beating incessantly. So loud that I cant hear anything else. So loud that it clouts my vision, and consumes me completely. On the outside I still look the same. My eyes still look blue to everyone else. They cant see how they have changed to inky black.

Everyone wants to be looking through the window and they don’t understand that they are looking at a television screen. I am a show for them, because somehow disappointing everyone is worse than any other fate on Earth. And they still get their smiles.

It made me grow up. It made everything in my life twist and distort, even and especially when I didn’t realize it. It brought on the macabre existence where I still dwell. There is no escaping it. I tried. I tried really hard to run away from it. I didn’t stop running for years. It was always there. The dark shadow behind me that I conveyed to others as light. And it’s still there. I finally stopped running, but I’m still jogging. I can’t talk about it, I cant think about the details. I know them better than anything that I have ever known, but I will not let myself know them. If that makes any sense at all. It made me normal. Not in the conventional sense of the word. It made me appear normal. I worked so hard to keep those smiles, and the same behavior. Being me was a job because it wasn’t who I was anymore. I was another person. A nameless person. A person only I knew existed. As a little girl, that’s too much to know. I learned early to smile at the right times, laugh at jokes, be as normal as I could be. That’s when it began.

I disassociate when I am either depressed or manic, or normal, whatever someone would call it. When I am depressed I am this nameless person. This person that I created when I was only seven years old. When I am happy, I am myself. When I am nameless, I have no idea how I could ever be as happy as that other girl. I am even convinced that Jen Maz doesn’t actually exist. She is just a figment of my imagination, a figment that is everyone else’s reality.

It’s hard. The loss of innocence riddled me with guilt. There was something that I did wrong. It was my fault. I was supposed to be ashamed. I was made to be afraid. I was forced to be normal. Normal is the only word I can assign to it, even though I cursed it every day. I didn’t want to be normal. I wanted to hurt, to show people that I hurt. But I didn’t want to hurt them. I cared about them too much. Even as a little girl, I was protecting others when I should have been protecting myself. Protecting the ones that should have been protecting me.

Protecting myself. That’s such a laugh. I’ve never protected myself. I don’t think I even know how. I couldn’t protect my innocence. I couldn’t protect anything after that. Maybe I knew that the most important thing was already gone. That thing that let me look at the world in a state of wonder, marveling at the brilliance of it all. Instead I was left looking at the world in shocked disbelief at the things I had learned. Things that were forced on me. Things that, even at eighteen, I would rather not know. Seven was much too early. I don’t want to say that that’s the reality that we live in. The harsh reality. That shouldn’t have to be reality. That shouldn’t have to be what the world is. No one should have to know it. From seven to seven hundred, no one should have to experience it. Saying that it’s the reality we live in, is excusing it. Putting it as something beyond our control. Maybe it isn’t something we can control, but the victims shouldn’t have to suffer. They shouldn’t have to be normal.

Innocence. I don’t even know what that word means anymore. If it even exists. If I look in the face of a child, will I see it? Or will I see what I have seen for so long when I look in the mirror? I am afraid to look into a child’s eyes and see the blackness that resides in mine. The all encompassing blackness. I look in the mirror and I don’t see my blue eyes. My eyes look cold and gray and dead. They aren’t alive. They haven’t known innocence for more than half of my life. It almost makes me question whether or not it was ever there. But, no. It was there. A smile on my face, so pure, so free, so alive. I didn’t know. I didn’t know that evil could kiss me on the lips. I didn’t know that guilt could suffocate me. I didn’t know that there would someday be a devil on my shoulder, whispering in my ear. I never thought that everything bad could get so close. That it could dwell inside of me. I was just a little girl with a smile that could stop time. I don’t know where that smile went.

It seems like a lifetime ago. Ten lifetimes. It seems like another person. How could I have ever been so innocent? I don’t even remember what it feels like. I don’t remember looking at the clouds for the sheer enjoyment of it, finding bunnies with puffy tails. I don’t remember laughing because I meant it. I was too young. It’s too far away.

He is somewhere. That I know. He could be in another state. Another neighborhood. Another house. Another country. Right outside my window. That might be what scares me the most. To see his face, and have it really be his face. To smell him, and have it really be him. To feel his hands on my skin, and have him touching me. He is the one that has my smile that could stop time. He has it. Along with my happiness. My purity. My blissful ignorance. My trust. He has my innocence. He stole it from me. He stole it from that little seven year old girl who hadn’t been kissed by evil, or enveloped by fear. He ripped it from her body. He ripped her soul from her body. Her everything. He’s always around the corner, in the supermarket, outside my window, in the bed where I sleep. Because I don’t where he is. I don’t know where he’s taken my innocence.



Wow. Very deep. Thanks for sharing this with us... there's nothing else I can say...


i had to skip past the end, i cant stand to be triggered again tonight. but i understand what i read too well. i wish i could take my own innocence back, but mine IS actually lost, i dont remember where it went, only that it left, and i became the corrupt and troubled child i remember. the one who saw horrible things she shouldnt have imagined, but she dosent remember why...

innocence is relative. it shouldnt be judged by a hymen, or by age, or thoughts. if it wernt for my thoughts im innocent, if it wernt for my hymen im not. and at my age innocence is debatable. I dont know what I am.

*hugs* but its gone, to whoever took our innocence, we cant get it back. so lets learn to live without it, everyone looses it eventually. by the time we reach adulthood most have become corrupt, not innocent. miss it, miss the childhood, but dont dwell too long, or youll long for it too much, youll loose yourself within it.

im sorry, im not thinking too well atm...