THE VOICE OF ONE CHILD TOO MANY

She took her tiny hand from her swollen mouth only once, to slowly indicate her age with three trembling fingers. One finger was swollen and painful. Then her expressionless face turned away, bruised side up, and she lapsed into herself again. No sounds were uttered as I gently mapped the yellow, brown and blue patches which covered her body. A brutal camouflage hiding the greater distress which lay inside. Inside a tangle of scars, confusion, fear. Inside this delicate child whose mother could not, or did not protect her. From him? Or was he a diversion, from her? Was he really the perpetrator of the repeated physical and sexual attacks? If so, why did she not protect? Mothers are supposed to protect or call for help? Mothers are supposed to help. "They would take my children away if I reported the incidents" she defended. "I need my children", she importuned. "Please help me". The nurse, usually a cool model of composure left before the tears completely dissolved her facade. It was painful to see the child, to hear the story. For a moment the rest of us stood silent and vacuous. The quiet child recoiled from my touch good bye. No Trust. No Love. No Tomorrow? We slowly trailed out of the room in disbelief; (in frustration) in anguish. As we closed the door I distinctly hear a small voice inside say "Please help me." The voice is still echoing in my mind. The voice of one child too many.