I am Chloe Vollenhoven and I cannot complain.
And yet, somehow, I find I still have a closet full of things that leave me wanting. Just spent the week in beautiful Portugal. I live in a country that may not be there soon enough. Not the way it’s going. And I know, I just know I’ll be told not to worry about it. To enjoy my ‘childhood’ because it will soon be over.
My childhood was over a while ago already. You just failed to notice.
Being here in Europe and being able to walk about late at night after our dinners have been such a far cry from what I’m used to back home. This is freedom. Safety. I hear my parents talking late at night. Seriously considering moving us all back to Germany. For me. For Jack. For our future. I honestly don’t know how I feel about it. Angry perhaps. Because I want to do something. I want to fight. In my gut, it feels like running away.
Nothing that people have done out there has worked. Not all the protests and marches in the country can possibly change what’s happening now. Have we gone past the point of no return?
Last year I was so in love. My whole life revolved around planning my outfits for dates and making sure my phone credit didn’t run out so I could text my friends every detail of our magical dates as it was happening! I cared about getting my period for the first time and having my boobs painfully fill in my chest. I cared about all the additional hair maintenance I now have to deal with. I cared about dad being away from us. I cared about mom crying all the time. I cared about Jack and how lonely and confused he seemed. I cared about school and making new friends. I cared about my music.
Now that all seems so superficial. And I know we aren’t being told everything either. Not with the news and journalists being controlled by our corrupt government. Are there no United Nations violations being perpetrated? Are we part of the UN? Is that how it works? Do we need to be apart of the UN before they can step in and do something? Why don’t they do something now while people are dying? While children are being murdered. Children not much older than my six-year-old brother. Girls not much younger than myself. Is it really running away then? For our own protection. To prohibit our family from becoming statistics of murder, police brutality and rape?
Perhaps they are right after all. Perhaps, at seventeen I shouldn’t be thinking about the things that lurk in the dark. Perhaps if I can regain some of the superficials before alongside Charlie and her beau Aiden, perhaps then I too can live in relative ignorance.
It’s time to go. We’re about to board our flight to Germany now. The airport is a bustle of early risers off to somewhere. I wonder how many of them know the darkness in my mind?