When Elliot Costello and a group of other people visited Cambodia, he had an encounter with a young girl named Thea.
Little did Elliot know that this encounter would have an impact so profound on him that it would help start a movement whose goal is to end sexual abuse against children.
Namely, Thea always had nail polish on her tiny nails. One day, as she and Elliot chatted, she asked to paint one of his nails. He agreed and was happy to speak to the chatty girl, but he then learned that she was once a victim of sexual abuse.
“As she painted one of my nails, I assured her I would always keep it that way to remember her, and by extension, her suffering,” Elliot said.
This motivated Elliot to try and make positive change among men so that less and less children fall victims of sexual abuse.
That is when he came up with the movement called #PolishedMan where men put nail polish on one of their nails. That one nail represents the one in five children who will be victims of sexual violence.
Polished Man works towards ending sexual violence against children. According to the organization, “being a Polished Man means challenging violent behavior and language, both locally and globally.”
Elliot believes that since men are responsible for 96% of this type of violence against children globally, they should be catalyst for change if we are ever to see an end to the abuse of innocent children.
The goal with the painted nail isn’t just to remind people of the number of children who are abused every single day, but to serve as a conversation starter about this reality, leading to new ideas about prevention. He also hopes that people will start donating to “support educational programs and resources for child survivors of abuse,” as per APlus.
We hope that more men, including celebrities would be willing to join this movement.
I BURIED MY WIFE 20 YEARS AGO — YESTERDAY, SHE LITERALLY SAVED ME FROM A STROKE.
The rain hammered against the windshield, mirroring the storm raging inside me. It had been a year since the accident. A year since my wife, Emily, had vanished without a trace. The car, a mangled wreck, had been discovered at the edge of the Blackwood Forest, a chilling reminder of the day my world shattered.
The police had searched tirelessly, but to no avail. Volunteers combed the forest, their faces etched with sympathy, but their efforts yielded nothing. The prevailing theory, grim as it was, was that wild animals had taken her.
Emily’s mother, a woman of unwavering faith, had insisted on a funeral. “We need closure,” she’d said, her voice thick with grief. And so, we gathered, surrounded by the somber silence of the cemetery, to mourn a life cut tragically short.
But grief, it turned out, was a stubborn beast. It clung to me, a persistent shadow that followed me everywhere. I couldn’t escape the haunting memories – Emily’s laughter, the way she smelled of lavender, the warmth of her hand in mine.
And then, a few days ago, the unthinkable happened. I was at the local cafe, enjoying a much-needed cup of coffee, when a sudden wave of dizziness washed over me. The world tilted, the warm coffee spilling across the table. I slumped to the floor, the taste of bitter coffee and fear filling my mouth.
Panic surged through me as I struggled to breathe. Then, I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Sir, are you alright?” a concerned voice asked.
As I tried to focus, a face swam into view. It was a woman, her eyes wide with concern. “Can you pronounce this word for me?” she asked, her voice clear and calm. “Apple.”
I managed a slurred “Apple.”
“Good. Now, can you lift your right hand?”
I tried, but my arm felt heavy, unresponsive. Fear, cold and clammy, gripped me. What was happening?
Then, as my vision cleared, I saw her. Her face, pale and drawn, framed by a tangled mass of hair. The same captivating blue eyes, the same mischievous glint in their depths. And there it was, unmistakable, the crescent-shaped birthmark on the left side of her forehead.
It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be Emily.
But it was.
She looked at me, a mixture of disbelief and fear in her eyes. “Ronald?” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis once more. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. All I could do was stare at her, at the face I thought I had lost forever.
How? How could she be alive? Where had she been all this time?
Questions swirled in my mind, a chaotic whirlwind of disbelief and joy. But one thing was certain: Emily was alive. And after a year of despair, hope had finally returned, brighter than any sunrise. The rain hammered against the windows, mirroring the storm raging inside me. It had been six months since the accident. Six months since my wife, Emily, had vanished without a trace. Her car, mangled and abandoned, had been discovered at the edge of the Blackwood Forest, a place where legends of the supernatural mingled with tales of real danger.
The police had searched tirelessly, their efforts joined by a tireless band of volunteers. But all their efforts yielded nothing. No trace of Emily. Just the mangled car, a chilling testament to the tragedy.
Emily’s mother, a woman of unwavering faith, insisted on a funeral. “We need closure,” she had said, her voice thick with grief. And so, we gathered, a small circle of mourners, to say goodbye to the woman I loved. It was a heartbreaking ceremony, a hollow echo of the life we were supposed to build together.
Life without Emily felt surreal. The house, once filled with her laughter and the clatter of her cooking, was now eerily silent. Every corner whispered her name, every familiar scent a haunting reminder of her absence. I spent my days adrift, haunted by the “what ifs,” the “if onlys.”
Then, came that fateful morning. I was at the local cafe, the rain mirroring the grey haze that had settled over my life. As I reached for my coffee, the world tilted. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I crumpled to the floor, the hot coffee spilling across the table.
Suddenly, a pair of hands gripped my shoulders, steadying me. “Sir, are you alright?” A voice, concerned yet firm. I tried to focus, my vision blurring. Then, I saw her.
Her face, pale and drawn, was inches from mine. And there it was – the unmistakable birthmark on the left side of her forehead, a small crescent moon that I had kissed countless times.
Emily.
My breath hitched. “Emily?” I croaked, my voice hoarse.
Her eyes, wide with a mixture of shock and disbelief, met mine. “John?”
The world seemed to tilt again, this time with a dizzying sense of disbelief. How? How was she alive?
“I… I don’t understand,” I stammered, my voice trembling.
She looked around, her gaze landing on the concerned faces of the cafe patrons. “I… I can’t explain,” she whispered, her voice weak. “I woke up… somewhere. I don’t remember much. I was hurt, disoriented. I… I wandered for days.”
A flood of questions surged through me. Where had she been? What had happened? How had she survived? But before I could ask, she fainted.
As the paramedics rushed her to the hospital, I felt a surge of hope, a flicker of joy that I hadn’t felt in months. Emily was alive. She was here.
The days that followed were a whirlwind of medical tests, cautious questions, and whispered reassurances. Emily slowly regained her strength, her memory returning in fragments. She remembered the accident, the terrifying crash, the darkness that followed. She remembered waking up in a strange place, disoriented and alone, with no memory of how she got there. She had wandered for days, lost and terrified, surviving on berries and rainwater.
The mystery of her disappearance remained unsolved. The police were baffled, the medical professionals amazed. But none of that mattered anymore. All that mattered was that she was alive, that she was back in my arms.
Life after that was a slow, tentative journey back to normalcy. We faced countless questions, whispers, and curious stares. But we faced them together, hand in hand, cherishing every moment. The fear of losing her had cast a long shadow over our lives, but now, we clung to each other, determined to make the most of every precious day.
The accident had changed us, forever altering the course of our lives. But it had also taught us the true meaning of hope, the enduring power of love, and the incredible resilience of the human spirit. And as I looked at Emily, her eyes shining with a newfound appreciation for life, I knew that our love story, though interrupted, was far from over. We would face the future together, stronger than ever before, grateful for the second chance at the life we had almost lost.
Leave a Reply