Dexter's body tenses for a moment. "I am not gonna fire you," he declares, catching me off guard.
Relief washes over me. "Then, are you going to forgive me?" I ask, desperately hoping this all will end now.
His smirk returns. "No, I am not that kind...
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DEXTER Ten years old
I look around the playground, taking in the slides, swings, and a seesaw. The vibrant energy of numerous kids running and playing surrounds me. Some are covered in mud. I don't know anyone here to play or talk with, not that I want to. I don't have friends because kids think I'm rude and scary. Once, a girl tried to talk to me. She had a runny nose. She held her hand out to be friends with me. I didn't shake her hand and said to her that her hands were dirty. She went crying to her mom. I guess one would have friends only if you'd say sweet things, which is something I lack.
The choice to be at the playground isn't driven by a desire for company but rather an escape from the relentless fights at home. Mom and Dad are fighting again. It all started one month ago. Initially, the fear and tears consumed me, but it has become a routine of sorts. So, whenever they fight, I just stay away from them. I used to question them as to why they were fighting. They said it was some misunderstanding and told me not to worry. The fights never end. I stopped asking.
A soft, sniffling sound breaks me out of my thoughts. Turning towards the source, I discover a small girl beneath a tree, her face concealed behind her knees. She has long brown hair that reaches her waist and wears a red floral frock. She looks like she's younger than me. She seems lost in her own world of distress.
I walk towards her. Comforting a person is something that I'm not good at. My feet just seem to gravitate towards her. When I stand in front of her, she seems to realize my presence and slowly raises her head towards me.
Her eyes lock onto mine, and I take a deep breath, absorbing the weight of the moment. Her glassy hazel eyes are beautiful. Tears are running down her face. My hand involuntarily twitches, yearning to wipe away the tears streaming down her delicate face, but I hold back. I don't want to scare her away. In my whole eleven years of existence, I never felt like this connection.
Summoning the courage to break the silence, I inquire, "What is your name?" Her gaze remains fixed on my face as she hesitates before responding, "My grandma used to call me Lio," accompanied by a subtle sniffle and more tears cascading down.
Concern etches across my face, and I gently probe, "Are you hurt?" She shakes her head, prompting my next question, "Why are you crying?"
Her voice trembles as she reveals, "My grandma left me alone. My mom says she went to heaven. I also want to go to heaven with her."
A pang of sympathy tugs at my heart for this child who seems unfamiliar with the concept of death.
Attempting to offer solace, I ask, "Do you want your grandma to be happy?" She nods.
"Then you shouldn't cry. If you cry, your grandma will be sad too," I say.
I don't know what I am saying, but it seems to be working cause she stops sniffling.
