Lachrymose Love

01 | shall I compare thee to a summer's day

I looked at the policeman at the front of the car, through the bullet proof glass separating him from me.

The seat of the police car I was sitting on was scratched, suggesting that most people who were put in the back didn't want to be put in the back.

I tapped my foot, impatiently, waiting for the ride to end.

I saw a few people, who looked around my age, crossing in front of us, laughing and talking. I couldn't help but feel the taste of bitterness on the tip of my tongue. That could have been my life.

The journey then continued, until we stopped at the expected destination: the police station.

The policeman got out of the front and then unlocked the backside of the car. He kept a firm grip onto my wrist as he guided me through the entrance and to the back, where the cells were.

He undid my handcuffs and then quickly locked the cell as if he thought I would run out if I had the chance. If he was thinking that, he was right because I was debating to run off while he unlocked the police car when he had first arrested me.

I looked at the cell opposite mine and a man glared right back at me, forcing me to turn around to avoid the awkwardness of it all.

I shouldn't be here. I should be out enjoying my young life. But if I was talking about things that shouldn't be, then I would add being kidnapped to the list too.

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Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Shakespeare. I should know, I spent an entire term on that particular sonnet. Thankfully, I had just started summer break and was rid of it for at least another month.

Picture this, a stereotypical summer's day. Flower beds consuming every bit of land, the blazing sun upon your back, and a happy couple taking it in turns to push their only daughter on a swing.

Now picture two gloved pairs of hands reaching out of a white van and grabbing the small girl. It turns out that a summer's day isn't the best thing to be compared to, especially when you were kidnapped on one.

I was only eleven when it happened. Old enough to know what was going on, but too young to give some form of self defence.

My kidnapping was a blur. One minute I was playing in the park with my family, the next minute I was being ripped from their arms and being blindfolded and gagged.

When I reflect on my times as taken hostage, I try to convince myself that it was okay. That far worse could've happened to me. It's true, I wasn't nearly as abused or as damaged as any other victim. Yet the events still play in my mind, like a broken record player, that never bloody stops.

I know I was knocked out - several times. I know I was kept in a small box of a room with a worn out foam mattress, with no means of warmth. I know that I wasn't given nearly enough food for my growth.

My kidnappers had no ulterior motive. They had researched my parents to find out their income and then followed us around until the time was right to take me. Then they would keep me hostage until my parents paid the arranged price to have me back.

However, my parents never paid the money and therefore I was never set free. I was left, until one day my kidnappers were fed up waiting and they left me on the streets to fend for myself.

I didn't know where I was. I didn't know anyone. And I had been gone from my parents for so long that I could barely even remember what they looked like.

I was made homeless and I didn't even have a choice in the matter. I didn't run from home, I had no desire to be rid of my family, but they were gone all the same.