It was a bad day. I have worse to come. I will not fret.
The heat and the sweat of the day swirled around me as black as my thoughts. The faster we could leave this place the better. I cared not to watch the face of the child swell over with tears. I cared not to watch the retched woman whip his head back into the house, as he struggled and kicked for all it was worth. Then the screaming. Gods the horrid screaming. A human can make some interesting sounds when in pain, but a child, a child can break your heart with just a whimper. And even then, despite this dam in my heart threatening to pour over, I stayed cold and rigid in my grounds. I watched, just watched as each bag was halfheartedly dragged around to the trunk. I flinched away each time I saw my father walk out of the broken home with more clothing, more food, more supplies draped over his arms. And when she, my mother, that women came waltzing out, not a tear on her cheek, I lost it. How dare she? How dare she walk away from this? Did she not hear him, feel his screams echoing through her chest, not know of the fear writhing behind his eyes? Was she to sleep the night away with not a care for the boy? Who would be there to cradle him now, when his body was thrown down the hall? Who would stop him from finding his grandfathers gun at night, when all was still and the screaming quieted through the alleys? I bet that silver shine glared at him on the longest nights. I bet he dreamed of pulling the trigger. I would have. And yet despite the young boy, I was drawn to watching this elder man before me. For he had once been young too. And he knew of the horrors this child faced, as he was once a cousin to this life. I held my jaw, light headed and stiff, as he tossed a bag over his shoulder, walking off without a word. He limped down the gravel road as a breeze whipped past him, carrying with it the retched smell and sound of that house. More screaming. Blood. Booze. Perhaps a whiff of death under it all. And yet he kept his head up, didnt look back, just kept moving. Would I be that strong one day? To feel so little pity for these people? Was I to stop loving and living as I do? I shivered at the thought. Of all things, of course I cared more of my own future. Not the lives being lived right now, not the blood of the children being spilt. I was pathetic here. I was nothing. Why was it suddenly about me? I shook my head and griped the seat, knuckles white, as my mother sat down in the car, bags spilled over beside me in the back. And finally, my grandmother spoke up, just a few words slipping out under her cold glare, "Its a shame..". A shame, she says? What is a shame? That the child may die tonight because you were too selfish to care? That my father has walked off to make his bed under a park bench to lye like a dog through the night? That my mother is sitting there, uncaring, wanting nothing more than your monetary possessions despite all we have done for her? What is a shame then, grandmother? Perhaps it is you. Perhaps it is your inability to care. Or do you care too much, to a point that you simply have nothing else to do but love your daughter to death, and drive a stake into our family? No, I do not care of this. I do not care that my grandfather will be waiting there, a gun in his lap and a suitcase in hand. I do not care if my world is torn from its hinges in this whirlwind of a life. What I care for, dear grandmother, is the 'shame' you call that child. For he may not last the night. And as you weep in your bed about how hard the day has been, how little time you have left to float along and just exist, he will curl up on the floor as the fleas drink him dry, and watch as his father bleeds out on the kitchen floor, needles sticking out of his arms in the pathetic attempt to feel alive. He will cry and breath in the smoke as his mother burns away all he loves. He will scream as he feels the sting of her fists. And you will not care. You will let it happen. For what are you to do? Help? No. That is beyond you. You are far too busy with your mundane life. Arent you, dear grandmother?
The heat and the sweat of the day swirled around me as black as my thoughts. The faster we could leave this place the better. I cared not to watch the face of the child swell over with tears. I cared not to watch the retched woman whip his head back into the house, as he struggled and kicked for all it was worth. Then the screaming. Gods the horrid screaming. A human can make some interesting sounds when in pain, but a child, a child can break your heart with just a whimper. And even then, despite this dam in my heart threatening to pour over, I stayed cold and rigid in my grounds. I watched, just watched as each bag was halfheartedly dragged around to the trunk. I flinched away each time I saw my father walk out of the broken home with more clothing, more food, more supplies draped over his arms. And when she, my mother, that women came waltzing out, not a tear on her cheek, I lost it. How dare she? How dare she walk away from this? Did she not hear him, feel his screams echoing through her chest, not know of the fear writhing behind his eyes? Was she to sleep the night away with not a care for the boy? Who would be there to cradle him now, when his body was thrown down the hall? Who would stop him from finding his grandfathers gun at night, when all was still and the screaming quieted through the alleys? I bet that silver shine glared at him on the longest nights. I bet he dreamed of pulling the trigger. I would have. And yet despite the young boy, I was drawn to watching this elder man before me. For he had once been young too. And he knew of the horrors this child faced, as he was once a cousin to this life. I held my jaw, light headed and stiff, as he tossed a bag over his shoulder, walking off without a word. He limped down the gravel road as a breeze whipped past him, carrying with it the retched smell and sound of that house. More screaming. Blood. Booze. Perhaps a whiff of death under it all. And yet he kept his head up, didnt look back, just kept moving. Would I be that strong one day? To feel so little pity for these people? Was I to stop loving and living as I do? I shivered at the thought. Of all things, of course I cared more of my own future. Not the lives being lived right now, not the blood of the children being spilt. I was pathetic here. I was nothing. Why was it suddenly about me? I shook my head and griped the seat, knuckles white, as my mother sat down in the car, bags spilled over beside me in the back. And finally, my grandmother spoke up, just a few words slipping out under her cold glare, "Its a shame..". A shame, she says? What is a shame? That the child may die tonight because you were too selfish to care? That my father has walked off to make his bed under a park bench to lye like a dog through the night? That my mother is sitting there, uncaring, wanting nothing more than your monetary possessions despite all we have done for her? What is a shame then, grandmother? Perhaps it is you. Perhaps it is your inability to care. Or do you care too much, to a point that you simply have nothing else to do but love your daughter to death, and drive a stake into our family? No, I do not care of this. I do not care that my grandfather will be waiting there, a gun in his lap and a suitcase in hand. I do not care if my world is torn from its hinges in this whirlwind of a life. What I care for, dear grandmother, is the 'shame' you call that child. For he may not last the night. And as you weep in your bed about how hard the day has been, how little time you have left to float along and just exist, he will curl up on the floor as the fleas drink him dry, and watch as his father bleeds out on the kitchen floor, needles sticking out of his arms in the pathetic attempt to feel alive. He will cry and breath in the smoke as his mother burns away all he loves. He will scream as he feels the sting of her fists. And you will not care. You will let it happen. For what are you to do? Help? No. That is beyond you. You are far too busy with your mundane life. Arent you, dear grandmother?
