Status: TW
The Broken Child
Broken
I’m in my house standing in front of my bedroom, there is a little girl in a twin size bed, placed where my bed would be; right against the wall next to the window in the far corner of the room. This girl is maybe 8 years old, she has long black straight hair that reaches her waist, her eyes are a green-blue color, and her face is pale and smooth. Underneath her eyes are dark, as if she hasn’t slept well in days. On both of her crimson stained arms there are little blue and black bruises and little fresh red puffy cuts that go up and down each of her arms. Downstairs, a man mutters, he is saying crazy things that I can’t really understand, but when I go downstairs I can see him leaning into the old desktop skyping my mother. Who is just in the room across from mine upstairs. He talks to her about something privately and when I walk into the kitchen he doesn’t stop, his voice just turns into a whisper. I go into the little country crock kitchen and grab piles of sweet lemon cookies from the baking sheet, stuffing them in my pockets and mouth as if I hadn’t eaten in weeks.
“Get me some.” the man commands me from his rolling computer chair; leaning over for a brief second to talk to me. I grab another handful and put them in my pocket, I’m not supposed to eat upstairs, and the little girl is not supposed to have cookies. But I bring them upstairs anyways. When I reach the stairs she is on her bed, playing with a ball paddle, she bounces the ball back and forth, not caring when it misses and droops carelessly to the side, attached to the paddle by a stretchy rubber band. I get to the room and she turns to me.
“Help me,” She whispers, “Help me,” but then the man downstairs calls for her, and she walks down the creaky wooden staircase. “Help me,” she repeats one last time before taking the turn of the steps and stepping on the carpet to the living room where the man is. When she’s downstairs I hear the sounds of her crying, and the sounds of the man grunting and yelling. my face goes white because I know what’s going on, but I choose not to react, instead I cross the little hallway and enter my mother’s bedroom; perhaps to ask for her help. She’s sitting on a chair in front of the bed, the computer on a little rolling metal caddy in front of her, a swirl constantly moving on the screen. She’s muttering something but I can’t tell what she’s saying, I think it’s about something that’s happening downstairs, “My baby… My baby…” she whispers to herself, rocking back and forth in the chair. When I leave my mother’s room, the little girl is back at the top of the stairs, her face is now bruised at her cheekbones, the back of her shirt torn by multiple slash wounds all covered in the fresh blood that drips down her back and onto the hardwood floor. “Help me,” she cries without tears as she turns to go back into her room. She climbs back on her bed, and picks up the ball paddle, and plays the paddle game again as if ignoring what just happened.
“Get me some.” the man commands me from his rolling computer chair; leaning over for a brief second to talk to me. I grab another handful and put them in my pocket, I’m not supposed to eat upstairs, and the little girl is not supposed to have cookies. But I bring them upstairs anyways. When I reach the stairs she is on her bed, playing with a ball paddle, she bounces the ball back and forth, not caring when it misses and droops carelessly to the side, attached to the paddle by a stretchy rubber band. I get to the room and she turns to me.
“Help me,” She whispers, “Help me,” but then the man downstairs calls for her, and she walks down the creaky wooden staircase. “Help me,” she repeats one last time before taking the turn of the steps and stepping on the carpet to the living room where the man is. When she’s downstairs I hear the sounds of her crying, and the sounds of the man grunting and yelling. my face goes white because I know what’s going on, but I choose not to react, instead I cross the little hallway and enter my mother’s bedroom; perhaps to ask for her help. She’s sitting on a chair in front of the bed, the computer on a little rolling metal caddy in front of her, a swirl constantly moving on the screen. She’s muttering something but I can’t tell what she’s saying, I think it’s about something that’s happening downstairs, “My baby… My baby…” she whispers to herself, rocking back and forth in the chair. When I leave my mother’s room, the little girl is back at the top of the stairs, her face is now bruised at her cheekbones, the back of her shirt torn by multiple slash wounds all covered in the fresh blood that drips down her back and onto the hardwood floor. “Help me,” she cries without tears as she turns to go back into her room. She climbs back on her bed, and picks up the ball paddle, and plays the paddle game again as if ignoring what just happened.