So many times, too many times, was I faced with the air of my baby, the space, the blank space where she wasn’t—where I knew she was not, or where she was. This was my existence. For some reason this was my place in life.
This is a story of my life when my father would be accused to things by the authority’s so they could sleep with my mother who didn’t speak well English. I was used to get them in by them lying and saying I was their daughter. That’s how Isabelle got killed in my stomach-my daughter that would have shown my father’s eyes.
Though I’m One Less by Lori Jean Finnila
(Fictional characters created to tell story.)
Photo by Daniel M. Campos.
Photo Lori Jean Finnila at 16, a little before the abuse.
I was the one in the place that could have died. The young girl of one of the girls lined up in the clinic of the illegal abortions-with no parents there, held in physically by bouncers drugged. One stirred when she heard my scream, One of the other scared girls saved my life. I was bleeding to death. The cloth, or towel or some sort, that the counselor who coincided and coerced with the situation, when I screamed for help, was stuffed in my bleeding vagina that plugged the flow.
The one of many scaredyoung girls scuttled back to the state of closed eyes when pierced with the counselors eyes. This was an experience of abuse that no one else could tell, but me apparently.
‘Isabelle’s Eyes’ Wins Award At Amsterdam Lift Off Film Festival
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