Black House, Painted White
Who knows which words will stick with a child and which words won’t?
Who knows at which point the child will break down and cry, unable to regain the joy that they’ve lost? Who knows what gives one child the courage to move on when another is forced to give in?
Who knows? The child knows. Ask her.
I’ve been sitting in my room the whole day, fearful. Reluctant to even quench my thirst or release the strain being placed on my bladder. I don’t want to run into my father. The epitome of a monster in my dysfunctional little world. His cold eyes always cut straight through to my soul - severing my emotions, holding at bay my joy. Creating all at once a shiver in the base of my throat. When he speaks I can do no more than stand motionless, unable to speak. His mere presence fills me with fear.
His hands are like tennis rackets, round and huge. My face like the little green ball being smacked dead against them. My body dropping instantly to the floor, rolling fast until a still object stops my motion.
“How can this be?” some may ask. It may be unimaginable to some but not to us. Not to the children who face it. Daily we live with the fear, the unrest, the belittling - the abuse!
Not today! Today, I’ll stay in my room. Today, I will figure out for myself and for the others, how to evade fear, how to be strong and make still the animosity that seeks to ruin our childhood. I won’t even go out to see my mother. After all, why should I? She says she loves me, yet she has never once caught the hand that has been raised and dropped upon my fragile body so many times. She’s never corrected the words that have caused me to wither in shame, questioning my self-worth.
I stare at the ceiling, thinking about my friends at school. Our days are filled with constant laughter. We hold our heads up high, making plans for our futures. They come to me with their little problems - that to them seem so big. “Give me advice,” they say. Do any of them know about the pain I endure? Can they look beyond the brightness that I emit outwardly to see the darkness that encases my soul? Do they see the shadow of suicide that follows me, beckoning me to join his parishioners? - we remain at constant battle. Do they know that I’m a black house, painted white?. . . . . . . .
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My Life Is No Balloon Ride
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