Scars
He gasps great silent sobs, folding over, digging his nails deep into his flesh. The puny pain of sharp nails against the pain of so many scars opening afresh, the bitter tears of again, again, again, and he heaves and is not relieved.
His parents do not understand that they scarred him long ago. A child remembers when he is hit, even if it did not leave deep welts and cuts. A child remembers the threats voiced to his siblings, even if they are never carried out, because no child dares disobey upon hearing those threats.
He doesn’t fear the physical pain in these punishments; only the emotional pain of feeling such a perversion.
No child should hear from a mother that cereal will be shoved up his anus if he does not eat it.
No disabled child should ever be compared to a healthy sibling. There is no crueler scar than to feel unwanted for a fault not of your own, and worse, to feel wanted as a shiny trophy. Something to be displayed for its talents, something to hide away the crippled one.
Children cannot ever return what a parent gives. Rather, they pass what they choose to their own children, and scarred children find peace in being the parent they wished they have.
But he cares for his parents too much to be free. Too young, too trusting, too good. He heaves again, and every scar spills guilt, the guilt of an imperfect child of perfect parents.
