Ara Ara’s Mind

{AN: I have had this idea about two sisters who began as best friends solving a mystery since I was 14. I actually began to write a short story about them a few months ago. Enjoy this sneak peak!}

“I know.”

Two words that could truly mean anything, depending on the context.

“I know.” A girl says tenderly, when her friend mentions the way her crush looks at her.

“I know.” A woman nods, as a man tries to explain a concept she is full aware of.

“I know.” A friend remarks, thinking about what the people in their life are going through.

“I know.” I say to my sister, gazing deeply into her eyes. Trying not to say everything I already figured out.

“I figured as much.” She answers, pulling away from me. “What are you going to do about it?”

I can tell by the way she asked that she’s scared. That I’ll snitch, turn her in, tell everyone I can. Betray her. Disown her.

But I can’t do that. “Whatever you want me to.”

I can’t lie and say it’s not a conflict of my morals and ideals, but I’ll let them be derailed for her. I’ll expand my view for her.

“I don’t know, Syd.” Mckenzie faces me with the reddest eyes she’s ever had. Threatening to cry.

My sister is broken, tired, and scared.

I can fix this. I will fix this.

⌕⌕⌕

On October 17^th, 1852, a fraternity house was established on campus. Ever since then, that house has been terrorizing every women that visits this campus. Women leave that house battered, broken, disheveled, and abused. With no one to talk to, no one to condemn, no where to feel safe, they carry that weight with them. Some women get consumed by it, some become empowered by it, some just try to forget it ever happened. There is no correct way to deal with being assaulted or taken advantage of, that is not what I am here to discuss.

 Things fester in time when not treated. Infections happen, diseases happen, and those things can spread to an uncontrollable degree. When people looked at that Fraternity house, they could look upon a wound that had been growing for almost two-hundred years. How painful that must have been to see and know what took place there. To walk past that house every day to get to class and know what the boys in there actually stood for. To gaze at the decaying wood and know how your body would be seen and treated in its presence.            

I keep coming up with questions: why do you let something fester for so long? How long are these people allowed to remain protected? When does justice come to these women who have been abused for centuries? But none of these have answers or if they do they aren’t ones I like. So, similar to the many women who have walked out of that house with a new weight, I just carry them. And I will until I find answers to those questions myself.