The redhead little child looked around to see if there was anyone close enough to observe him. When he was satisfied, he proceeded to crawl in the dark space of his small closet with holes in the floor, into the coldness and ants nests, into the oblivion of a tight space where no else belonged. He brought his knees to his chin, and wrapped his arms around them, face hidden, eyes glaring into his crotch. He could not stop the whispering in his head, and he couldn’t share it with anyone. Who would understand his young words, the lack of expression, the feelings he didn’t have names for? Who would believe the nightmare that was he was supposed to call life? Who cared that his two-year-old brother was given away to the tall, scary man at the door, for a Ziploc bag? Who gives away their children for Ziploc bags? He couldn’t understand it either.
He started talking to himself, in an effort to quiet the noise in his head. Suddenly, a flash of light exploded around him, and when he opened his eyes, he could see the inside of his bedroom. Clothes all over the floor, mixed with rotted pieces of food, with feces no one ever bothered to clean, with smeared and old toys that didn’t even belong to him. He didn’t dare move. He could sense there was someone else there. He stared, as if at the source of voices he could now hear better and better. He heard his name called out, yet he refused to move. He didn’t want to go in there, not today. He needed a moment, or a few, without the torment of the things that were happening uncontrollably. He stayed put, but dreading the horror that was coming. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the bedroom door opened, and his mother stepped in.
With a crooked smile on her face, with rotten teeth and crazy, burnt, red hair, his mother cracked the closet door open and yelled. He shook his head and pleaded with his eyes. He started tearing up, but knew that would do more harm than good. He got up slowly, knowing full well he would have to follow her into the living room. His small body wasn’t heavy enough to put up any resistance, as she was pulling him by the arm, almost taking his shoulder out of its comfortable socket. He was ushered to the middle of the room, among strange men he didn’t know. Some smiled as they made eye contact, some were stern and impenetrable. Those were the worse, he knew. The others he could fool with his child play, with his crazy, made up stories, with his blue, innocent eyes. The serious ones he had to watch for, because they didn’t care about hurting him. They enjoyed it.
Then he saw him. The voice is his head became louder and louder, and hard to contain. A flash of light, and he was back in his closet, in the dark and cold of the small, suffocating place. He didn’t know how to ask for help. He didn’t know that parents are supposed to love their children. He’d grown up without any of that, he’d grown up wondering why the world wasn’t doing anything to help. He’d grown up a monster himself, through no fault of his own. And he knew that much. He looked up, he allowed himself a glimmer of hope, and he whispered: “Please, don’t hurt me, daddy…”