Speaker 1: I never expected my train ride home to turn into
a nightmare. It was a cold evening and the train
was packed with tired commuters, lost in their phones or
staring blankly at the floor. I had taken this route
one hundred times before, just another ordinary night in the city,
but this time something felt off. I first noticed him,
standing near the middle of the train car, a tall,
rough looking man with wild eyes and a nervous energy
that made my skin crawl. His hands twitched at his sides,
and his lips moved as if he were whispering to himself.
At first, I thought he was just another troubled soul,
someone lost in his own world. But then I saw
where his attention was focused. Two young women sat nearby,
speaking softly to each other. One of them wore a
hi job or dark eyes, darting nervously toward the man.
Speaker 2: He was staring at her.
Speaker 1: His face twisted in something between a sneer and a smirk.
Speaker 2: Then I heard it, low, ugly murmurs.
Speaker 1: I couldn't make out the words, but I saw the
way the girl shrank back, pressing closer to her friend.
Her hands trembled as she gripped the strap of her bag.
Something inside me tightened. The train clattered along the tracks,
the fluorescent lights above flickering for a moment. The man
leaned in closer to the girl, his voice still too
low for me to hear, but his body language said enough.
She was terrified, and then, without warning, he shoved her.
She yelped as she hit the floor, her hands slamming
against the hard surface of the train. Her friend gasped,
bending down to help her. The entire train car went silent,
the air thick with shock. I felt my body move
before my mind even caught up. Hey, I shouted, stepping forward,
the hell is wrong with you? The man turned to
me slowly, as if I had just interrupted something important.
His lips curled into a lazy grin. Mind your own business,
he muttered. My fists clenched. You just assaulted her. Apologize,
he snorted.
Speaker 2: Why should I? She doesn't belong here anyway. That did it.
Speaker 1: Before I could say anything else, two other men in
the train stood up beside me. One was older, in
his fifties, maybe with tired eyes but a strong stance.
The other was younger, in a business suit, his jaw
tight with anger. Leave him alone, the older man said,
his voice calm but firm.
Speaker 2: You're harassing people, the younger one added, you need to stop.
The man's grin faded.
Speaker 1: His eyes flitted between the three of us, calculating. The
train rocked as it sped through the tunnel, the windows
reflecting our tents stand off, big heroes.
Speaker 2: Huh, the man muttered, Think you can tell me what
to do.
Speaker 1: The tension was thick, ready to snap. My pulse pounded
in my ears. The other passengers were frozen, some clutching
their bags, others pretending not to see what was happening.
Then everything exploded, a glint of metal. Before I could react,
pain ripped through my side. My breath hitched as I
stumbled backward, a sharp, burning sensation spreading through my stomach.
Speaker 2: He had a knife. I barely had.
Speaker 1: Time to process it before he turned on the older man,
a quick brutal stab to the chest.
Speaker 2: Blood bloomed on his shirt.
Speaker 1: He gasped, eyes wide, and collapsed onto a seat. No,
the old man screamed. The younger man tried to run,
but the attacker was fast. The knife slashed across his
throat in one horrifying motion. He fell instantly, his body
crumbling to the floor. I pressed a shaking hand to
my stomach. My fingers wet with blood. My legs felt weak,
the ward tilting around me. The train car erupted into chaos.
People screamed, scrambling to the far end of the train.
So I'm trying to pry open the doors. The two
girls huddled together, sobbing, their faces, pale with shock. The
attacker stood there, chest rising and falling, his knife dripping
red onto the floor. His eyes flicked around, wild and unfocused.
He wasn't done. My vision swam, but I forced myself
to move. I had to stop him. With whatever strength
I had left, I lunged at him. My shoulders slammed
into his side, sending him stumbling back. He growled in frustration,
swinging the knife wildly, but I dodged just barely.
Speaker 2: He wasn't expecting me to fight back.
Speaker 1: I grabbed his arm, trying to wrench the knife away,
but he was strong, too strong. He shoved me hard,
and I hit the metal pole behind me, my ribs
screaming in pain.
Speaker 2: The train screeched as it neared the next day.
Speaker 1: The lights flickered again, and then red and blue lights
flashed outside. Cops the train door slid open. An officer
stormed in, the guns drawn, drop the weapon now.
Speaker 2: For a moment, the man.
Speaker 1: Just stood there, his chest heaving, the knife still clutched
in his bloody hand. Then, like a trapped animal, he
lunged toward the door. A gun shot rang out, not
a fatal shot, just a warning. The man froze. The
cops tackled him to the ground in seconds, wrestling the
knife from his grip. Handcuffs snapped around his wrists.
Speaker 2: He was over.
Speaker 1: I don't remember much after that. My body gave up
and everything blurred. I woke up in a hospital bed,
the staile, white walls, too bright, beep of machines filling
the silence. The nurse told me I had survived barely.
The knife had missed my vital organs by inches. The
other two men, they weren't so lucky. Ricky and Daniel,
those were their names, Two ordinary men who had just
wanted to help, who had stood up for what was right,
and they had lost their lives because of it. The
news covered the story for weeks. They called it a
hate crime. The man, his name was Charles Barker, had
a history of violence of extremeist beliefs. He had boarded
the train looking for trouble, and he had found it,
but so had we. I still think about that night,
about the two men who never made it home, about
the two girls who were just trying to exist in
a world that saw them as different. I survived, and
as long as I'll live, I'll make sure people remember
what happened that night, because hate only wins when good
people stay silent, and we didn't. On May twenty six,
twenty seventeen, Jeremy Joseph Christian carried out a brutal attack
on a Max light rail train in Portland, Oregon. Christian,
known for his extremest views and history of violent behavior,
began harassing two teenage girls, one wearing a he job,
shouting racist and Islamophobic slurs. Three men, Taylorsen, Mirden, Namkai
Mesh Ricky, John Best, and Micah Fletcher, intervened to protect
the girls. Without warning, Christian pulled out a knife and
stabbed all three men. Talisen and Ricky suffered fatal wounds
and died at the scene, while Micah survived with serious
injuries to his neck. Christian fled the train, but was
arrested shortly after. During his trial, Christian showed no remorse,
making racist outbursts in court. In twenty twenty, he was
convicted of murder, attempted murder, and hate crimes, receiving a
life sentence without parole. The attack was wildly condemned as
an act of hate fueled violence, highlighting the dangers of extremism.
Being a class teacher was something I dreamt of since
I was a teenager. Dealing with kids, connecting with them,
making them learn, and watching them grow has always been
the best feeling. The smell of pencils and old paper
filled my classroom, and the usual chatter of kids buzzed
around me. Gabrielle Fernandez sat in the second row, head down,
scribbling in his notebook. He was quieter than the others,
a little bit more reserved, but always polite, always eager
to learn. I should have known, I should have seen
it earlier. The first time I noticed something was off,
it was his eyes. They weren't just tired, they were empty,
like the light inside of him was fading.
Speaker 2: A dark bruise.
Speaker 1: Peeked out from under his shirt collar, yellow around the edges,
like it had been there for days. When I asked
him about it, he flinched, his small hands curling into
tight fists.
Speaker 2: Just fell.
Speaker 1: He whispered, A chill ran down my spine. The way
he said it sounded fake, like he'd been told to
say it. The next week, Gabrielle came to school with
a busted lip. The skin split and swollen. Dried blood
stuck in the corner of his mouth. His hands shook
as he held his pencil, and when I handed him
a tissue, he pulled back like he thought I was
going to hit him.
Speaker 2: Who did this to you?
Speaker 1: I asked, kneeling beside him. My heart was racing and
my stomach turned. My mom and her boyfriend. He mumbled,
so quiet, I almost didn't hear him.
Speaker 2: They don't like me. A heavy feeling settled in my chest.
Speaker 3: I can help you, gabriel I whispered, You just have
to tell me everything.
Speaker 2: His lips quivered.
Speaker 1: He glanced over his shoulder like someone was watching the
sam gay. He finally said, his voice cracking. They don't
want me. I clenched my fists. He was just a kid,
eight years old. How could anyone? I reported it right away.
Child Protective Services said they'd look into it, but the
next day Gabrielle didn't come to school or the day
after that.
Speaker 2: When he finally came back, he looked worse.
Speaker 1: His small body was thinner, his cheeks hollow, his arms
got his arms cigarette burns, deep purple bruises, red welts
that looked angry and raw.
Speaker 2: I couldn't breathe. What happened?
Speaker 1: I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. His lips
were dry and cracked. They made me eat cat litter,
he said. They made me eat rotten spinach from the trash.
I ran out of the classroom, holding back tears, and
called CPS again. You need to get him out of
that house now, I said, my voice shaking, ma'am. We
have a lot of cases.
Speaker 3: I don't care.
Speaker 2: They're torturing him.
Speaker 1: They said they'd follow up. I should have done more.
I should have taken him and run. Gabrielle stopped talking
after that. The spark in him was fading fast. Then
one Monday, he came to school with two black eyes,
the skin around them swollen and purple, his left eyelid
barely open. His knuckles were raw, like he'd been scrubbing
something for hours. He moved slowly, like every step hurt.
I pulled them aside, whispering, I don't.
Speaker 2: Let them hurt you anymore, okay, I swear.
Speaker 1: He looked up at me, those big brown eyes full
of something that scared me, acceptance, like he knew he
wasn't going to make it. Two weeks later, Gabrielle Fernandez
was dead. They found him on the floor of his
mom's apartment, his little body beaten and broken. I was
horrified knowing the details about what Gabrielle's own parents did
to him. How could someone be so cruel to a child?
Are they even humans?
Speaker 2: My legs trembled and my heart burned in pain.
Speaker 1: The thought that Gabrielle died because of his evil parents
made me question everything sane and through it all, he
still loved them. In the hospital, in his last moments,
he told the nurses, make sure my mom's okay. I
screamed when I heard. I collapsed at my desk, shaking
with anger and grief. I begged, I pleaded that the
system failed him. I failed him. The trial was a mess.
The Tsarro agiity, the monster who did this, sat in
court with cold, dead eyes. Pearl Fernandez, Gabrielle's mother, didn't
cry not want Yes. They played the tapes of Gabrielle's
last moments. His cries is begging for help, the horror
he went through. I wanted to cover my ears, to
forget the sounds of his pain. Hagire got the death penalty,
Pearl got life without parole, but it didn't feel like justice.
Gabrielle was still gone. Sometimes I dream about him. He's
sitting in my classroom, head down, drawing pictures of happy families,
families that would never hurt him. I wake up screaming
because I know how his story really ended, and no
punishment will ever be enough to make up for what
they did to him. I heard his voice in my head,
his last words to me, help me, and I didn't.
I kept going over that moment, wondering what I could
have done differently. Could I have gone to his house.
Could I have pushed harder with the authorities. Could I
have protected him from the people who were supposed to
love him?
Speaker 2: The guilt he eats at me, a constant weight on
my chest.
Speaker 1: Gabrielle's face stays with me, his eyes empty, his shaky voice,
the bruises that told a story he was too scared
to share. I think about the other kids in my class,
the ones who laugh and play and trust the world
to keep them safe.
Speaker 2: I watch them more.
Speaker 1: Closely now, looking for signs for anything wrong. But no
matter how many I help, it'll never be enough, because
Gabrielle is gone, and the world feels darker without him.
The case of Gabrielle Fernandez is one of the most
tragic instances of child abuse in US history. In twenty thirteen,
eight year old Gabrielle died after months of brutal torture
by his mother, Pearl Fernandez, and her boyfriend Izarro agire
in Palmdale, California. Gabrielle was beaten, starved, burned, shot with
baby guns, and forced to eat cat litter. Desperate, multiple
reports to social services and law enforcement authorities failed to
intervene in time. On May twenty second, twenty thirteen, Gabrielle
was found unresponsive and later died in the hospital due
to his severe injuries. Augiree was sentenced to death, while
Perl Fernandez received life without parole. The case led to
widespread outrage and calls for child welfare reform.
Speaker 2: Social workers involved.
Speaker 1: Faced criminal charges, but were later dismissed. A Netflix documentary
The Trials of Gabrielle Fernandez, shed light on the systematic
failures that contributed to his death, sparking discussions on child
protection laws. I could still recall the initial time I
met him, Doctor Larry Nasser, a name that ought to
stand for safety, healing, and trust, turned out to be
a nightmare from which I can never awaken. I was
only fifteen, a talented gymnast by days, a whirl of
chalk on my hands, searing routines, and an endless quest
for perfection. My aspirations were ingrained in the shine of
gold medals and deafening applause. I believed in the coaches
who trained me and the schools that promised to protect
my future. It was a fragile thing, though I didn't
realize it then. The Michigan State University Clinic towered like
a cathedral of hope. I'd heard whispers of athletes revived
under Nasser's treatment. Torn ligaments, repaired spines, corrected career, saved.
My coach, a woman with a clipboard always clutched in
her hand, had nodded curtly when I grown through a.
Speaker 3: Vault drill, Go see Larry. She'd instructed, he'll get you
fixed up. Her tone brooked no argument. The waiting room
smelled of ammonia and mbmbition. Framed newspaper clippings adorned the walls.
Olympians mid flight, their bodies coiled like springs. A girl
beside me, maybe thirteen, clutched a stuffed bear, her legs
bouncing nervously. I wondered if her stomach churned like mine.
When the nurse came and called me.
Speaker 1: I trailed after her down a clean white corridor. My
leotard stuck to me, the fabric still wet from practice.
His office was a shrine to himself, Awards that shone
like teeth, Pictures of beaming girls paused in perpetuity. He
rose when I walked in. He smiled disarmingly warm. Welcome,
he said, as though welcoming a visitor. Let's see what
we can do for the pain, he said. Then he
put on gloves. The examination table was cold beneath my thighs.
He hummed as he worked, a tuneless sound that filled
the silence. At first his touch was clinical, probing the
knot in my lower back, But then his hands slid lower,
fingers grazing the edge of my uniform. My breath hitched.
He paused, tilting his head, just checking for muscle tension.
He explained, his voice smooth is oil. I nodded, teeth
digging into my lip. This is what healing feels like.
I chastised myself, but his hands dull deeper. The world spun,
my heart beat in my ears? Was this normal? Was
I dreaming it? He smiled, softly, taking notes on a clipboard.
Speaker 2: You're doing great. The compliment was a yolk.
Speaker 1: I gazed at the ceiling, tallying water spots until he
finally moved away. We'll have to have weekly sessions, he said,
patting my knee to avoid further damage. The second appointment
was worse. No gloves today, no clipboard, His hands bare
and greasy with lotion pressed down on me. Before I
could breathe relax, he whispered, this will easier. Hippol'em. My
mother sat six feet away, turning the pages of a
People magazine. A towel draped over Nassar's wrist hid her view.
I stared at a poster of the Olympic rings on
the wall, their colors running together, as tears pricked A
man who had sworn an oath to heal was breaking
me apart from the inside out. Then I staggered to.
Speaker 2: The parking lot, my legs shaking.
Speaker 1: My mother squeezed my shoulder and asked whether I was
feeling better or not. I smiled weakly, yeah, much. The
shame fermented in silence. During practice, I winced when coaches
made me change my stance. At night, I scrubbed my
skin raw under the shower, the water burning.
Speaker 2: I said nothing to.
Speaker 1: Anyone, because who was I to question a man so respected,
so admired. But the cracks widened. In the locker room,
a teammate grumbled.
Speaker 2: About strange treatments.
Speaker 1: We didn't look at each other. Our shame was a
mutual secret. Years later I discovered she'd been seeing him too,
her file as thick as mine. By twenty sixteen, the
rumors became a roar, an investigative piece, a police report,
a hashtag. When I called the prosecutor's office, my hands
shook so hard that I misdialed twice.
Speaker 2: The woman on the phone was patient, Take your time,
she said, but time.
Speaker 1: Was already lost to us. The backlash was swift, A
tention seeker. They called me online troublemaker, sneered a former coach.
My family's mailbox brimmed with letters accusing me of lying.
Yet with each survivor who came forward, her voice trembling
over zoom, her story mirroring mine, the weight lessened voices
that had been silenced for decades, finally screamed in court.
We were a mosaic of grit power, dressing former olympians,
adolescens with orthodontia, and mothers holding pictures of daughters who
took their own lives. When I stood up, the air
was charged with all the breath collectively held. Nasser looked
down at his handcuffed hands, but I addressed the judge,
the cameras, the girl that I was. Judge Aquilina's eyes
never left his sentence. Upon sentence, stacked up forty years
sixty one seventy five, the room breathed out.
Speaker 2: I just signed your death warrant, she said, and.
Speaker 1: For the first time I felt the shackle's ease. We
met in the courthouse lobby afterward, embracing like survivors of
a wreck. A reporter asked if we had forgiven him.
I shook my head. Forgiveness. Wasn't the issue. This was
about rewriting the ending. Now, when I train young gymnasts,
I observe the flinch at the approach of a stranger,
the pause before the high five. We practiced protocols, no
treatments in the absence of a guardian, and no secrets
from parents. They roll their eyes, but I do not relent.
Nasir's sentence is a life. Ours is a lifetime. The
nightmares persist. Is breath hot in my ear, the creak
of the exam table, but they're softer now. At rallies,
we pass the microphone like a baton, each voice a torch.
The truth is terrifying. It's also our armor. We were
girls who wanted to fly, but he clipped our wings.
We were champions, but he made us feel powerless.
Speaker 2: No more. Today we tell our stories.
Speaker 1: Today we are heard, and today we ensure that no
other girl ever has to whisper in the darkness, wondering
whether she will ever be believed. The world now knows
the truth, and the truth is horrifying. The Larry Nasser
case is one of the most notorious abuse scandals in
sports history. Nasser, a former USA Gymnastics in Michigan State
University doctor was exposed for abusing hundreds of young athletes
under the guise of medical treatment. His crimes spanned decades,
with many victims being elite gymnasts, including Olympic champions like
Simone Biles, Ali Reismann, and MICHAELA.
Speaker 2: Maroney.
Speaker 1: In twenty and sixteen, survivors came forward, leading to an
investigation that uncovered Nassar's long history of abuse and institutional
cover ups. In twenty seventeen and eighteen, he was convicted
on multiple charges, receiving a prison sentence of up to
one hundred and seventy five years. During his sentencing, over
one hundred and fifty survivors delivered powerful victim impact statements,
exposing systemic failures that allowed his crimes to continue. The
case led to widespread reforms in USA Gymnastics and Michigan
State University, as well as a national reckoning on protecting
athletes from abuse.