There was a crime.
Actually, scratch that. Multiple crimes.
The crime scenes? Your home, your neighbourhood, your community.
The suspects? People you knew.
The witnesses? Pretty much everyone.
The arrests? Oh, don't be ridiculous.
You were a child. You were supposed to be safe. There was supposed to be a village raising you.
And technically, there was a village.
Unfortunately, the village had a rather creative interpretation of child protection.
Instead of protecting you, they nodded approvingly and declared, "It's for your own good."
Ah, yes. Education.
Apparently, fear was part of the curriculum, humiliation was character development, and violence was just a particularly enthusiastic teaching method.
The weapon was identified, but couldn't be confiscated.
It was still attached to someone you were instructed to call Mum or Dad.
Your case was never reported. No police arrived. No forensic team collected evidence.
Life simply continued.
Years later, when you were finally old enough, you decided to call a witness.
Not the police.
But the Department of Psychology.
And here's the punchline: you had to pay the witness yourself.
Quite a remarkable justice system, isn't it?
The victim pays for the investigation, the perpetrator gets on with life, and society suggests that perhaps you should consider "forgiveness".
Preferably before New Year. Family gatherings are awkward enough.
And the strangest part?
Nobody died.
The bruises disappeared. The wounds closed. Case closed.
Except your body apparently never received the memo.
A door slams. A voice rises.
And suddenly, congratulations!
You've won an all-expenses-paid trip back to childhood.
No passport. No luggage. No consent required.
The crying. The hitting. The pulling. The slapping. The screaming.
And there you are again.
A little child, holding out two tiny palms, begging, "Please. No more."
But nobody listens.
The helplessness returns. Then the sadness, like an entire ocean determined to drag you down to the seabed.
And you wonder:
Why on earth am I still serving a sentence for a crime I never committed?
An excellent question.
But look around.
It's 2026.
You've travelled years beyond that crime scene. You've built another home. You've learned to stand tall, even when part of you still feels terribly small.
You don't need an apology to begin living.
You don't need to forgive anyone to prove you've healed.
And you certainly don't need to invite the perpetrators over for Sunday lunch.
You can build the walls that should have protected you. Not walls that imprison, but walls that shelter the generations after you.
Perhaps one day, children won't need to hire professional witnesses to explain why their childhood hurt.
The case may never receive a verdict.
But your life is no longer theirs to sentence.
And that, my dear readers, is one hell of a plot twist.
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