I went to talk to G‑d last night.

I had woken up from one of those frightening dreams, shaking. I snuck out to the hallway and down the stairs. Carefully, I opened the back door so it would not squeak.

The air was chilly, and goose bumps sprouted over my arms. It was dark, dangerous, and late. It was too late to go anywhere but the old bench in the back of my backyard. I walked there slowly, drowsily, not really conscious of what I was doing. All I knew was I needed to talk to G‑d and ask Him those hundreds of questions buzzing around in my head.

I'm angry because I feel like You've forgottenI gingerly sat down on the old bench. Dry, crackly branches loomed overhead, and the ground was wet, the air smelled like spring.

All the anger, frustration, and fear inside of me bubbled over, as though I may explode. I felt like I could scream, but when I did speak it came out in a soft, sad voice, almost like a sigh.

"Why me?"

The words hung there. The age old question, the thought on everybody's mind: "Why did it have to be me?"

I felt ashamed with those two words dangling in front of me, and tried to justify.

"You know I try never to complain G‑d. I try. It's hard G‑d, it really is, but I don't complain."

I clenched my fists tightly. The words caught in my throat, like a rock. I felt myself starting to cry and wiped the tears away angrily. I hated crying.

"But G‑d," I said sniffling, "I can't take this anymore! It isn't fair G‑d, It isn't! G‑d, I know You gave me so many wonderful things to live for, so many things I appreciate so much. But then there's this. I gestured to the air, trying to find the words, "the fear, the anxiety, the listlessness, the sadness, the hurt, the pain. Why G‑d? Why?"

I stopped crying, took a deep breath and leaned back. "I'm angry G‑d. I'm angry at You. There, I said it." It all came rushing out at once. "I'm angry for these past two years. I'm angry that You weren't there when I needed You the most. I'm angry because I feel like You've forgotten. I'm angry because sometimes it seems like You just don't care and I'm stumbling through this alone. I'm angry because I want to know: what did I do to deserve this?

G‑d, I know I've been horrible. I know I've forgotten You. I know I scorned You and pushed You away. But I always loved You. Even now, I'm angry, but I love You. I can't help it. Because I am You, I'm a part of You, I'm Your vision, and You breathed life into me. I came into this world with love for You. I'll always love You G‑d.

But I don't feel like You love me. And that's why I'm angry. Because I feel lost and lonely and far from You. Far from you and far from me.

I'll bet He was listening. What else does He do in heaven?I looked up at the sky. "Are you there G‑d, are You listening to me?" I started crying again, hard. "I'm here G‑d. I'm here. I want You to help me. Can you help me G‑d? Do you love me G‑d? Do You forgive me? Do You understand?"

I couldn't speak anymore. Only cry. Cry, and cry.

Eventually I stopped. Nothing magical happened. I didn't feel warmth and calm pass through me, those things only happen in stories. And G‑d didn't answer me.

But He's there. I'll bet He was listening. What else does He do in heaven? I spoke to G‑d from the bottom of my heart. G‑d listens to that.

I went back into my house and back to bed. I was still scared, and I was still sad. I still felt like it was unfair, and I was still angry. But that was ok. That was expected.

I hadn't said Shema that night. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I had.

I covered my eyes with my right hand, and whispered the prayer I knew so well. "Shema Yisrael Hashem Elokinu Hashem Echad…Hear Oh Israel, The Lord is our G‑d, the Lord is one."

Editor's Note:This piece was written by the fourteen-year-old rape victim who wrote the piece Reaching Out. After the supportive response from readers to her previous piece, her father reminded her of this that she had written soon after the attack.