The Turning Point

Prologue

My father always blamed me. My mother said he loved me, but still, he did nothing but blame me.

He popped my ball, saying I was making too much noise. He didn’t even give it to me; it was Mr. Mitchell who did, and my father hated him.

I didn’t have friends at school because I didn’t like talking much. What was the point of making friends? No one could come to our house. My mother said it was better that way, because we had nothing to offer to guests. I didn’t mind.

There were days when the teacher would give me a bag of bread to take home. That helped with the hunger.

No one at school knew what went on at home. The neighbors knew, but my mother said it was better they didn’t know about us.

I would hear my mother shouting at night. Sometimes, she would cry quietly, and the next day, she’d have marks on her face.

One day, she was walking strangely, and when I hugged her, she moaned and cried. I started gently stroking her back, and she moaned even more. I pulled away from her hug and went to check her back. When I put my hand on her shirt and lifted it, she stopped me and looked at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.

"I always see, mom!"

I continued. I lifted her shirt a little and saw purple and green bruises on her back. I quickly lowered her shirt and hugged her, but this time, without hurting her.

"It’s nothing, Davies."

"I hate him, mom! I hate that man!" I wiped my tears on her shirt.

"Don’t hate him, he’s your father. Good boys don’t hate. Good boys forgive."

"Then I’m not a good boy, mom. I’ll never be, because I’ll never forgive him."

"Don’t say that, Davies. You are good, and you are beautiful inside and out. Don’t be like him, and stop talking like someone older than you. You’re just a child."

I saw my mother crying again. It hurt so much. I loved her, and she was so beautiful, even when her skin had bruises. She had long hair, just like mine. Her eyes were green and so clear, I could see her soul. She used to say that we see someone's soul through their eyes. She also said I’d be tall like my father and that I looked like both of them. But I just wanted to look like her, not him.

"Go to school, dear. Your father got a job, and things will get better now. You won’t go to bed hungry anymore."

The day before, hunger had hurt just as much as a slap from my father. The pain wasn’t as scary as what I was feeling now. And it wasn’t in my stomach, it was right here, in my chest.

After school, Mr. Mitchell bought me an ice cream. All I wanted was for him to be my father. Sometimes, he would pick me up from school. He lived next door, and his wife would sometimes send me pieces of cake. They were delicious.

During all the time I knew him, I never could go to his house because my father wouldn’t allow it.

One day, he brought me a wooden toy truck and some bags with clothes he bought from a thrift store. He didn’t have children.

I thanked him, and he gave me a hug.

I clearly remember that my father didn’t hug me. He used to, but that gesture had become a thing of the past, before the beatings began.

My mother said he was like this after he fell off the roof and hurt his leg. After that, no one wanted to hire him, and that’s when he started drinking.

It wasn’t my fault, but still, he always said it was. He’d say that if I hadn’t climbed up there to bother him, he wouldn’t have gotten distracted and fallen off the roof.