Help Me Believe

Chapter 2: Shattered Locks

Journal Entry — Faith’s Diary

Dear Journal,

I didn’t sleep last night.

I keep hearing the sound. That c***k—like bones snapping or glass screaming. It wasn’t just a noise. It was a warning. A violation. A moment that split my night in two.

The window shattered around 3 a.m.

I was alone. Mom was working the night shift again, and the house felt too big, too quiet, too hollow. The kind of silence that makes you feel like you’re the only person left in the world.

At first, I thought I was dreaming. I even rolled over, half-asleep, trying to convince myself it was just the wind. But then I heard footsteps. Heavy ones. Not mine. Not imagined. Real.

I froze.

My breath caught in my throat like it was afraid to come out. My body went cold, like my blood had forgotten how to move. I reached for my phone, but my hands were shaking so badly I could barely unlock it. I dialed emergency services, whispered into the receiver, and prayed they’d hear me through the panic.

I don’t remember what I said. I just remember hiding in the closet, behind old coats and dusty boxes, trying not to cry too loud. Trying not to breathe too loud. Trying not to be found.

They didn’t take anything. Not physically. But they stole something. Safety. Peace. The illusion that my home was mine.

They left the window shattered and my heart cracked open.

I haven’t told anyone. Not really. I mentioned it to a girl at school, just in passing, and she shrugged like it was nothing. “That’s Joburg for you,” she said. Like fear was just part of the package. Like trauma was a rite of passage.

But it’s not normal. It’s not okay.

I feel exposed. Like someone peeled back the roof of my house and looked inside me. Like they didn’t just break into my room—they broke into my soul.

I keep checking the locks. I keep staring at the window. I keep wondering if they’ll come back. If next time, they won’t leave empty-handed. If next time, I won’t be lucky.

I don’t feel safe anymore. Not in my house. Not in my skin. Not even in my own thoughts.

And the worst part? I feel like I’m disappearing. Like I’m fading into the background of my own life. I party. I drink. I smoke. I laugh too loud and wear dresses too short. But it’s all noise. It’s all distraction. It’s all armor.

I want someone to see me. Really see me. Not the version I perform. Not the girl with the red lipstick and the fake confidence. Not the one who knows how to dance but doesn’t know how to cry in front of people.

Just me.

I don’t know if God was watching last night. I don’t know if He saw me curled up in that closet, whispering prayers I didn’t even believe. I don’t know if He heard the way my heart begged for safety, for rescue, for someone to come.

But I hope He did.

Because if He did, maybe I’m not invisible.

Maybe I’m not alone.

Maybe I’m still worth saving.

Love,

Faith