My hands trembling, I grabbed my phone from the edge of the sink. The screen lit up, illuminating my pale face in the mirror. Who could I call? The police? To tell them what? That I had found shreds of fabric in my pipes? They would think I was a paranoid mother. School? If I called management without knowing what was really going on, I risked setting off a storm that could backfire on Lily.
I had to know. I had to understand what my little girl was facing alone, every day, before making a misstep.
I put the phone down. My breath was short, my heart pounded my chest until it broke. I took off my rubber gloves, throwing them violently into the trash can, and walked out of the bathroom. The house, usually so peaceful, suddenly seemed threatening, full of hushed up secrets. I headed to Lily’s room.
The door was ajar. As I entered, I was struck by the unbearable contrast between the macabre discovery I had just made and the innocence of this room. Pale pink walls, stuffed animals neatly lined up on the shelf, a poster of his favorite band. Everything seemed normal. Too normal. But I knew now that my daughter was playing a role.
I started to search. I felt guilty for violating her privacy, but the image of this dried blood-stained fabric swept away all my scruples. I opened his closet, inspected his jackets, checked the pockets of his jeans. Nothing. I knelt down to look under her bed. A few boxes of board games, dust… and at the back, at the very back, pushed against the baseboard, an old shoebox made of grey cardboard.
I lay down on the cold floor to grab it. It was surprisingly heavy. I sat cross-legged on the carpet in his room, the box on my lap. I took a deep breath and lifted the lid.
A gagging shook me.
Inside, there were at least three school uniform blouses. They weren’t just torn apart; they were slashed. The sleeves were in tatters, the collar torn off. On one of them, the bloodstains were recent, of a dark and sinister red. Under the ruined clothes, there was a tube of healing ointment half empty, bandages, small nail scissors… and a small navy blue notebook.
My fingers were shaking so much that I had trouble opening the notebook. The pages were filled with my ten-year-old daughter’s round, diligent handwriting. But there was nothing childish about the words. It was a diary of horror.
Monday 12th: They waited for me near the old gymnasium. Camille had a compass. She said that if I didn’t give the money from the canteen, she would go after Leo. I refused. She tore my sleeve and it bled. I had to wash everything very quickly when I got home.
Thursday 15th: My back hurts. They pushed me into the gravel. I had to cut the bottom of my skirt with my scissors in the school toilet so that mom wouldn’t see the snag. I’m so scared. But I can’t say anything. Camille said they would come and burn our house if I talked.
Tuesday 20th: Leo was able to return home without being hit today. I was the one who took. Blood is difficult to get rid of. Mom asks me why I wash right away. I lied to him. I hate lying to her, but I have to protect her. I have to be strong.
Tears streamed down my cheeks, blurring my vision. My little Lily… My wonderful, sweet and brave Lily. She didn’t run away from dirt. She was fleeing from the evidence of her own martyrdom. She let herself be tortured by a group of older girls – this famous Camille – to protect a little boy, Léo, a first grade student who lived in our neighborhood. And she kept silent to protect me.
The anguish was instantly metamorphosed into an incandescent, primitive rage. A mother’s fury that I didn’t know I had. I looked at my watch. 3:35 p.m.
School ended at 4:00 p.m.
I have turned the last page of the notebook. The entry was from today, written that very morning, in haste:
Today is Friday. The day of the great “toll”. Camille said to wait for him behind the gardeners’ shed at 4:00 p.m. sharp. I have no more money. I’m very afraid of what she’s going to do to me with her cutter.
My blood ran cold in my veins and then boiled. A box cutter. Girls of fourteen or fifteen were waiting for my ten-year-old daughter with a blade.
I jumped up, leaving the box and notebook on the bed. I ran down the stairs, grabbed my car keys and purse, and stormed out. The sky was grey, heavy, heralding an imminent storm, like the storm that was rumbling inside me.
I started the car by squealing the tires. The ten minute drive to school felt like an eternity. I ran the orange lights, honked my horn, my heart pounding, my jaw clenched to the point of breaking my teeth. In my head, the images of the bloodied uniform were looping. I cursed myself for not having insisted, for having let myself be lulled by her fake smiles, by her false routine.
3:55 p.m.
I parked askew on the sidewalk, just in front of the gates of the adjoining primary school and middle school. The bell rang, a shrill noise that tore through the air. The doors opened and a steady stream of children began pouring into the courtyard, laughing, screaming, carefree.
I made my way against the current, jostling a few parents, ignoring offended looks. My eyes swept the human tide, desperately looking for that little blond head, that navy blue waistcoat. But Lily wasn’t with the others. She wasn’t going to the exit.
“Behind the gardeners’ shed.”
I knew the place. It was an isolated area, on the edge of a small grove located between the back of the schoolyard and the sports field. A grey area, far from the gaze of the guards.
I ran along the outside fence, my heels echoing on the asphalt, my breath short. The wind had risen, stirring the branches of the trees that seemed to want to block my way. I went around the large canteen building and took the small dirt road that led to the grove.
The closer I got, the heavier the silence became, broken only by the rustling of the leaves. Then I heard a voice. A high-pitched, arrogant, cruel voice.
“Do you really think we’re going to let you go like this, Lily-the-whiner?” You didn’t bring anything today. Rules are rules.
I froze for a quarter of a second behind a thick bush. A few meters away, leaning against the rusty tin wall of the old shed, was my daughter. Lily. His backpack was on the floor, his face was pale, terrified, but his chin was raised with a bravery that broke my heart.
Opposite her, three tall teenagers. One of them, taller than the others, was wearing a black leather jacket. She was holding something in her right hand. A metallic shine caught my eye: the retractable blade of a red cutter.
“Leave Leo alone,” Lily whispered in a trembling but determined voice. Do what you want with me, but don’t approach him again.
“Oh, that’s cute,” the girl sneered, obviously Camille. The little martyr. Give me your arm. You know how it works. Just one more little nick so you don’t forget who’s in charge here.
Camille took a step towards Lily, raising the blade…….
Continue Read next>>> PART2: My 10-year-old daughter always rushed to the bathroom as soon as she came home from school…
