SILENT WOUNDS

There was a five-year-old girl, I think she was five years old or going to six.

She was small. Soft-spoken. The kind of child who would hold your hand without asking questions. The kind who believed every adult meant well. At five, the world is simple. You think home is safe. You think grown-ups protect you.

Her father was around. But not really. Not in the ways that mattered. He was there, but… absent. Her mother carried everything: the bills, the food, the worries. And because survival doesn’t pause for childhood, the little girl and her siblings were often left with people her mother trusted.

It felt normal.

It felt safe.

Until it wasn’t.

During one holiday, something started to happen. The older boys in that house would send the other children on small errands. Buy this. Go get that. And she would be left behind.

They called her into a room.

Closed the door.

She didn’t understand. She didn’t know it had a name. She only knew it made her feel… wrong. Strange. Very, very small. She thought maybe this was just something older people did. Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe… maybe it was normal.

It wasn’t.

It happened more than once.

And the hardest part? She was five. She didn’t know she could say no. Didn’t know she was supposed to tell someone. Didn’t even know something wrong was happening.

One day, even when her mother was nearby, one of them casually asked to take her out. No one suspected. She followed. It happened again. She was naive, she was innocent, she was just little but she didn’t speak up to anyone because no one was ever gonna understand.

Afterward… something inside her changed. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quietly. Like a light… slowly dimming.

She never told anyone.

The secret sat inside her chest for years. It grew into something she couldn’t name, discomfort around boys, fear she tried to hide, a bitterness she didn’t understand. People said she was difficult. Too guarded. Too cold.

They didn’t know. She was protecting a five-year-old inside her.

Most days, she smiles. Laughs. Acts like everything is fine. But sometimes, in quiet moments, she still wonders why. What she did wrong.

She did nothing wrong.

She was just a child who trusted the wrong people.

Sometimes the deepest wounds are the ones no one sees  the ones carried in silence, behind a smile that looks… perfectly normal.

About the Author

Mercy Omorogbe is a 17-year-old Nigerian emerging writer who tells stories drawn from personal experiences, healing, and emotional resilience. Her writing explores themes of strength, vulnerability, and the courage it takes to overcome life’s challenges.

Beyond writing, Mercy is a young creative who designs mockups, creates video teasers, and works on visual content to support herself while growing her creative path.

Through her work, she hopes to encourage others to feel seen, find healing, and believe in their own strength.