The Day My Childhood Died
Feb. 5th, 2015 12:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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saladloveWarning. This may make you feel sad or be a wake up call that things happen. It's not a happy thing.
Warning 2. This story is purely fictional. There is very minor elements of real life inspiring this. Not the whole thing. Anyways. Read at your own risk.
I remember one event from my childhood that really stands out. The day it ended at the age of ten. It started as just any other day did, a smiling mother at my bed, holding my little sister, her voice like sweet honeydew, “Collin. Come on Collin. It’s time to get up and get ready for school.” I rose like a zombie, groggy and dead to the world, at least until a little before noon. I got up and went through my morning routine; getting dressed, preparing my pack, and going down for breakfast. It was two pieces of toast, a scrambled egg, a link of sausage, an orange slice, And a glass of milk. It was perfect to me at the time and got me thinking about what that day would hold. A day with my friends, learning new and exciting things, and of course coming home to a happy family. I wish I was right, I wished it then and I wish it now. To be truthful to the reader, the last thing on that list was impossible. My parents fought day and night, sometimes escalating to violence. I thought it natural at the time and all parents who loved each other fought like they did, my innocence forcing me to look through rose colored glasses. Well as I passed through the kitchen for my breakfast, I noticed broken plates and a wine bottle left on the floor by our island. Dad was nowhere to be found that morning. I thought nothing of it at the time, like a fool, or well, a child.
As I walked into the school that day, I was called into the office. They asked me a bunch of questions, which I didn’t really pay attention to while answering, a mistake I made that only harms myself and the reader. The nurse looked me over and said that there were no marks of abuse on the physical side of things. I luckily can say that there were no marks of abuse in any way for myself, no scars on my body or in my head to deal with. Afterwards, they let me go, even giving me a sticker usually reserved for school competitions between classes. It made me feel special, which I welcome today with open arms, that feeling might’ve been the factor that saved me that day. I made my way to class, feeling rather joyed with my sticker. The other kids all acted odd around me, as if advised to be careful as to not hurt me. My teacher gave me a look of sympathy, one I didn’t understand till many years later. I made it through class feeling odd, isolated, and withdrawn. It was hurtful, but I knew better than to let it get to me.
We went to recess later that day, taking our break from class and playing. No one wanted anything to do with me, making me that weird kid that had been considered “it” in the massive game of don’t touch. Well, almost everyone avoided me, all but this one girl, she was named Marlee. She walked up to me with a smile. We talked and I considered her a good friend, even though I’d only known her one day. We played and I even remember asking her to marry me at one point. She said yes, looking back, that was adorable of us. I never saw her again after that day. I caught wind that she moved somewhere that night. Funny how things can make you look up, only to have your legs swept out from beneath you.
I went back to class with an award winning smile, ending my isolation, at least temporarily. My usual friends came to my side, happy to have fun and play with me while we should’ve been learning and working. That’s the problem with group projects, back then and now. No matter what, kids will play. But back to the story at hand, the teacher had been especially condescending to me, almost as if she was talking to a hurt puppy. I understand now, but I didn’t back then.
After leaving school and going home, I found my parents fighting on the lawn. It had yet to get physical, but I went around back, just in case. I went inside and found my baby sister asleep in her crib. I sat with her as my parents argued and fought. I thought about how rude it was that my parents had decided to fight in clear view of everyone within my neighborhood. I took my baby sister in my arms, rocking her gently to sleep as if I had done it every day of my life. It felt like it had been hours waiting when I heard a knock at the door. It was odd, but I answered the door anyways. Neither of my parents were much for knocking, so that hint should’ve given away that it wouldn't be them at the door. Instead, the now wide open door revealed a large man in the uniform of a police officer. He asked about our well being and if we’d been hurt. I looked him deep in the eyes while holding my sister and told him we were fine. I knew he didn’t believe me, some ten year old kid, rocking his baby sister while his parents were fighting or in the back of cop cars or something like that. Oh well, it doesn’t matter much now. We were taken to our grandparent’s house across town that day. It was too late though. My childhood had died; my parents never came back, both of them deemed unfit parents, my sister practically considered me her dad, sometimes even accidently calling me “Dad”, I took to withdrawing from people, careful about trusting anyone again in the case of Marlee, and now I write this small memoir of that day. If I may offer any advice to any reader, Children reflect what their parents do. I was a lucky case of being able to think for myself, most children are not.
Warning 2. This story is purely fictional. There is very minor elements of real life inspiring this. Not the whole thing. Anyways. Read at your own risk.
I remember one event from my childhood that really stands out. The day it ended at the age of ten. It started as just any other day did, a smiling mother at my bed, holding my little sister, her voice like sweet honeydew, “Collin. Come on Collin. It’s time to get up and get ready for school.” I rose like a zombie, groggy and dead to the world, at least until a little before noon. I got up and went through my morning routine; getting dressed, preparing my pack, and going down for breakfast. It was two pieces of toast, a scrambled egg, a link of sausage, an orange slice, And a glass of milk. It was perfect to me at the time and got me thinking about what that day would hold. A day with my friends, learning new and exciting things, and of course coming home to a happy family. I wish I was right, I wished it then and I wish it now. To be truthful to the reader, the last thing on that list was impossible. My parents fought day and night, sometimes escalating to violence. I thought it natural at the time and all parents who loved each other fought like they did, my innocence forcing me to look through rose colored glasses. Well as I passed through the kitchen for my breakfast, I noticed broken plates and a wine bottle left on the floor by our island. Dad was nowhere to be found that morning. I thought nothing of it at the time, like a fool, or well, a child.
As I walked into the school that day, I was called into the office. They asked me a bunch of questions, which I didn’t really pay attention to while answering, a mistake I made that only harms myself and the reader. The nurse looked me over and said that there were no marks of abuse on the physical side of things. I luckily can say that there were no marks of abuse in any way for myself, no scars on my body or in my head to deal with. Afterwards, they let me go, even giving me a sticker usually reserved for school competitions between classes. It made me feel special, which I welcome today with open arms, that feeling might’ve been the factor that saved me that day. I made my way to class, feeling rather joyed with my sticker. The other kids all acted odd around me, as if advised to be careful as to not hurt me. My teacher gave me a look of sympathy, one I didn’t understand till many years later. I made it through class feeling odd, isolated, and withdrawn. It was hurtful, but I knew better than to let it get to me.
We went to recess later that day, taking our break from class and playing. No one wanted anything to do with me, making me that weird kid that had been considered “it” in the massive game of don’t touch. Well, almost everyone avoided me, all but this one girl, she was named Marlee. She walked up to me with a smile. We talked and I considered her a good friend, even though I’d only known her one day. We played and I even remember asking her to marry me at one point. She said yes, looking back, that was adorable of us. I never saw her again after that day. I caught wind that she moved somewhere that night. Funny how things can make you look up, only to have your legs swept out from beneath you.
I went back to class with an award winning smile, ending my isolation, at least temporarily. My usual friends came to my side, happy to have fun and play with me while we should’ve been learning and working. That’s the problem with group projects, back then and now. No matter what, kids will play. But back to the story at hand, the teacher had been especially condescending to me, almost as if she was talking to a hurt puppy. I understand now, but I didn’t back then.
After leaving school and going home, I found my parents fighting on the lawn. It had yet to get physical, but I went around back, just in case. I went inside and found my baby sister asleep in her crib. I sat with her as my parents argued and fought. I thought about how rude it was that my parents had decided to fight in clear view of everyone within my neighborhood. I took my baby sister in my arms, rocking her gently to sleep as if I had done it every day of my life. It felt like it had been hours waiting when I heard a knock at the door. It was odd, but I answered the door anyways. Neither of my parents were much for knocking, so that hint should’ve given away that it wouldn't be them at the door. Instead, the now wide open door revealed a large man in the uniform of a police officer. He asked about our well being and if we’d been hurt. I looked him deep in the eyes while holding my sister and told him we were fine. I knew he didn’t believe me, some ten year old kid, rocking his baby sister while his parents were fighting or in the back of cop cars or something like that. Oh well, it doesn’t matter much now. We were taken to our grandparent’s house across town that day. It was too late though. My childhood had died; my parents never came back, both of them deemed unfit parents, my sister practically considered me her dad, sometimes even accidently calling me “Dad”, I took to withdrawing from people, careful about trusting anyone again in the case of Marlee, and now I write this small memoir of that day. If I may offer any advice to any reader, Children reflect what their parents do. I was a lucky case of being able to think for myself, most children are not.
