I am not a writer of happy stories. I do not sugarcoat, I do not dream up alternative happier endings, and I do not leave out the horrifying, sick details. I am the teller of the truth, however painful it may be. When something bad happens, we as a society are always trying to look for a reason, for a scapegoat, for an excuse. There is no consolation in truth, none compared to a good story. When we are stuck between the glaring face of truth or the poor measure of a lie, we shall all look to the lie in order to save ourselves. What we all crave is the soothing, rocking safety of a lie.
The story I am going to be telling you is about a family. Now I could tell you the sugarcoated version, the one where you will go to bed with a happy feeling in the pit of your stomach, thinking that everything for this particular family was perfect and happy. I could do that, but I have promised myself to finally bring justice to these four children, who belonged to this family. These children, bless their souls, are what has compelled me to write this story.
Imagine this. Four children, sitting around a dining room table working on schoolwork. The oldest, being around twelve, was trying to help one of her younger siblings with her math work. The younger two were doodling on the edge of their texts, evidently bored. Out of the dining area and down the hallway, the door to the master bedroom creaked open and the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. The two youngest immediately sat up straighter and began working furiously in their workbooks. The oldest practically leapt from her sisters side to sit in her seat and began scrawling down answers to her work. Their mother walked into the kitchhen, gave the four a hard glance, and turned to the refrigerator to get some of Her food. As she lumbered around the kitchen, clearly ignoring them, the childrens heartbeats began to slow. They all had the same thought. Perhaps todays is going to be a good day, they all silently mused. But like always, their hopes were in vain.
A sudden slam of the refrigerator makes all four of the children jump. Their mother stormed into the dining room, her face nearly purple with anger.
"Where is the milk!?!?!?!" she screamed into their faces, spraying saliva with every word. The children shook in their seats, each of them glancing at one another, willing someone else to speak. After glaring at each one of them, she grabbed the closest one, the youngest boy being four, and shook him hard by the shoulders. "Where. Is. The. Milk?" she repeated, glaring into his small face.
"W-w-we used it for our breakfast this morning, ma'am," he finally whispered. His mother smiled a twisted smile, and repeated, "You used it for your breakfast, sweetie?" her voice dripping with sarcastic honey. The small boy, misinterpreting her smile and tone, smiled and nodded in return. Suddenly, she slapped him with a force that was enough to knock him off his chair. He landed with a hard thud on the tile floor.
"Well you shouldn't have eaten then!!!" she screamed, kicking him repeatedly into his small chest and throwing books across the room. "Now because of you greedy little fucks, I can't make MY breakfast," she yelled. She stepped over the boy and punched the middle girl in the face, sending her flying into the wall. The youngest girl crouched in the corner, hiding her face in her brown curls. Their mother grabbed the oldest and pushed her against the walls. "None of you will eat for the rest of the day, you hear me?" she said. And with one final kick to the small boy still laying on the floor, she left the room, eventually slamming the door to her bedroom shut.
"Stealing" milk out of the refrigerator. It seems such a small thing, doesn't it? Correct answer is, yes. It is such a small thing to become so violently angry for. According to accounts made by one of the children, this little scenario, while it may seem horrible to us, is not considered a very bad day compared to some others.
I'd like to take a moment to emphasize right now that this is a true story. As accurate and eye-opening as my meager writing talents will allow. I know these children. I've talked to these children. This is a real day in their lives. While you may just be turning the pages of this story, safe from oncoming blows, safe from hands wrapping around your neck, safe from any real harm, this is real for them. This is now.
