My Child

If walls could talk, they would tell the story of a childhood better than the child could. The walls of this childhood home had seen it all. Every sharp perspective the child shied away from, in what seemed to be a never ending repetitive cycle the child could not escape, they bore witness to everything.

"I'm here, my child."

A childhood bedroom is to be simple and carefree. Void with ideas of adulthood, imagination is to run amok. Reality removes the child from this safety net.

"The shouting is loud, my child."

Walls contain whatever is to happen inside them. They do not absorb. The darkness ricochets from one clear lacquer coated pink wall to the next.

"Don't quiver, my child."

No number of things on the walls, or in between them, will separate the child. There are two wooden doors in the child's room. One belongs to a closet and the other gains entry to the child's room.

"Hide now, my child."

In the cramped closet, the defeated child finally falls asleep. The child has drug their blanket and pillow amongst the shoes and plethora of items on the ground. There is no lock on the door of their bedroom to protect the child from the monster in the other room of the home.

"You are safe, my child."

It cannot be named where the child feels most safe, confined in what is to be their fairytale bedroom. Without many places to hide, the closet, behind the desk, under the child's bed, the loudness still breaks through. The child's only companion being a cat, that is, if the monster does not strike it too.

"Open the bedroom door quickly, my child."

The cat confined in the child's room acts more lifelike than the child. Daring not to make noise, go to the bathroom, or leave for any reason, the child appears lifeless. The cat will have to leave eventually at the unwillingness of the child.

"You'll see him again soon, my child."

The child reluctantly opens the door amidst the screams. The family cat ducks and makes a quick escape. He has been lost in the sliver of light the child sees from the crack in their bedroom door.

"Close the door fast, my child."

The child sits idly on the floor by their bedroom door and leans against the wall that separates them from running into the monster.

"It is particularly loud tonight, my child."

The child rises fast and out of the bedroom door they go.

"No! My child!"

There is nothing that can be done now, except to wait. The child returns as quickly as they left. Tears stream down their face, and the child jumps into bed under the covers; it is as if the child has just seen the monster. The child's mother comes to their aide, finally. Where have they been? The shouting is central to the room across the hall from the child's: the mother's bedroom. The mother's alcoholic boyfriend slams the door to exit the house. The child is blocking out what they have had to be witness to. It is easier said than done. Although, the light walls have faded more as time has passed. I have seen this child grow and leave.

No longer my child, they bare their trauma to new walls in their adult home. I imagine they still worry of confrontation. The child, that is now the adult, has a bedroom door that can lock. They check their closet in their adult bedroom for monsters, if not to make sure they can hide there every night. Staying up late, they wait for the shouting. There is no shouting to be heard, just their partner snoring and the loving feeling of a baby on the way.