“That was the thing about hope.
I could still dream of a better future.”
It was the fear. The never-ending night and constant unknowns. It held me in its grip and no matter what I tried, I couldn’t break free. It was like a living, breathing thing that could adapt at any moment. My imagination only seemed to amplify what it did to me in those long hours. It was a suffocating, constricting, and stifling existence. A searing flash burn that erupted across every nerve ending in my body when the adrenaline replaced the blood in my veins. It was not knowing what actually awaited me at the next moment. It was anticipating the worst, but hoping beyond hope that it wouldn’t come to pass. A futile thing. Refusing to let itself die out. And that was the thing about hope. To my young, hurt eyes, I was still able to hope. To dream of a better future. That that was what I felt the most when the danger was near. That was my reality. My secret. Something no child should ever have to endure, and yet, far too many have similar stories.
© Sarah Doughty
These hurt eyes
can still dream.
And so can yours.