A New Dawn The first trickle of blood flowed from my brow and down my cheek, following the path my tears had taken many times before. I began to stagger to my feet, only to end up, a moment later, on my back again. I felt two more numbing blows. The first was to my already aching stomach and the second landed squarely on my jaw. After that, my body was completely numb. The only thing I felt hurt me were the insults hurled at me by my assailants. “Look at him. Pathetic, filthy, little runt. Run back to your hole, you rat.” The spitting and swearing punctuated each blow. My left eye had already surrendered to the swelling all around it, while my right was shut tightly in anticipation of the usual final act of violence kick to the ribs. For once it never came. “See you tomorrow afternoon. And remember, not a word of this to anyone.” As I heard the footsteps grow softer, I slowly opened my eye, and seeing that I was alone, I picked myself up and dusted my clothes and hair. Besides the blood that had caked itself to my face, tears had begun to wash thin streaks of sand and dust from my cheeks. Picking up my bag and slowly putting back the ruffled schoolbooks, I turned and silently limped towards my home. These events had become a regular ritual for me. It was unusual to end a day at school without at least one bruise or cut inflicted by those that took fun in beating me senseless. Bullies seemed to single me out. Every one of them, younger or older would at some time see me as their prey. I had tried staying back as long as possible and tried different routes home, but always they waited for me. These people were patient enough to wait for me, yet tell me how they had better things to do with their time as they hit and kicked me. The sun was already beginning to set as I approached the derelict house where I lived. A light was on in the living room. My father was already home I guessed. I wiped dry blood from my face as best I could hope for. I doubted that he would have noticed, but didn’t want to have to explain myself to him. I had already received one beating that day. Climbing the stairs to the porch I could hear banging sounds from somewhere in the house. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and opened the front door. I tried to enter as silently as possible, but that was difficult as the door hung only by one hinge and scraped as it opened at an awkward angle. “That you boy?” My father’s voice boomed above the noise from the television set. I didn’t answer, but made my way as quickly as I could towards my room. Once inside my room I had a chance to look at the day’s handiwork. Besides the swelling around my eye, it didn’t look too bad. It wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t rely on a ‘football injury’ or other playground story. I took some comics from my bag and began to read on my bed. I ventured out a short while later to have my dinner. I spoke to no one and ate as quickly as I could. The food was cold and some of it was still frozen. I said nothing for fear of reprimand. Both my parents were already quite drunk. My mother stood leaning against the fridge with a glazed look in her eyes. She didn’t try to speak, but was concentrating more on keeping an unlit cigarette between her cracked lips. She looked so old and haggard, but I’m sure she was quite beautiful once. At least that’s what she always old me just before blaming the world for stealing her youth. My father sat watching something on television. His clothes were stained with food and spilled alcohol. I had no feelings towards him as I looked at him. After all I hardly knew the man. He never spoke to me. I watched in silence and then left as quickly as I could. My tactic was always to fall asleep as soon as possible so that I didn’t have to think about my surroundings. And for me, sleep meant the possibility of dreaming and escaping to a world my mind would create that could only be better than the one I lived in. A terrible screaming woke me. Everything was dark and it took me a while to orientate myself. The screaming stopped with a loud thud. I opened the door to my room and peered out. The house was quiet. Straining my ears, I listened for any sounds. I stood for what must have been quite a time. I had learned along time before to be careful of when to leave my room when I heard loud noises at night. I couldn’t hear anything and decided it was safe to venture towards the light in the living room. As I entered the room I was greeted with a site that no longer shocked me. My mother was sitting on the ground in a corner. Her arms shielded her face as she cried quietly into them. My father’s belt lay on the ground next to her. I didn’t have to guess what had happened. My father was slumped in his chair; his energies spent on my mother and his sleep controlled by the empty, crumpled cans lying at his feet. I stood looking at the scene with clenched fists. Even though I was angry it was not directed at anyone but myself. I was so tired of allowing myself to be in these situations. I was so tired of watching and feeling the violence around me. My body ached every single day. It ached not only from physical pain, but also from fear. It ached from fear during the day at school. It ached from fear when I left to go home and it ached even more at home. I hated being a victim of my circumstance. I never chose the life I was leading. I often dreamt of having parents that cared. I wished I could stop being invisible to them. It would mean the world to have them say something to me other than insults. How was it possible that so many of the other kids who came from good homes didn’t appreciate it, while I, who would do anything just to experience that, was stuck almost nightly with the scene I looked at, at that very moment. I walked towards my mother and helped her to her feet as best I could. I led her to her staggering into her bedroom and put her to bed. I doubted if she would remember anything in the morning. Wasn’t it sad that the only thing we would have in common in the morning would be bruises to our face. I didn’t even bother with my father and went to bed. I couldn’t sleep. For hours I lay in the darkness and contemplated my fate. Could I do anything to change it, or would I spend the rest of my growing years, becoming more submitted to fear and unhappiness? I resolved to leave and take my chances with the real world. I put a few clothes into a bag and left. I didn’t sneak out, but left confidently via the front door, It was false confidence because I knew that no one would wake up even when the door scraped as I opened it. It was a beautiful night and as I looked up to the skies and the moon, I felt like a caged animal set free. The air smelled fresher and the world seemed clearer as I walked away from the crumbling little house at the corner of the street. As I began to cross the field on the opposite side of the road, I turned to look one last time at the house. No feeling of sadness or regret overcame me. Turning away again I ran across the field and into the night. As the sun began to creep over the horizon and the sound of the world stirring, began to fill the air, I woke up. Sitting up, I looked around me. I hadn’t run that far. I looked out over the field I had crossed a few hours earlier. I stared back towards my home and it dawned that I had no place to go. I had no other family or friends who would look after me. All I had was what I had selfishly tried to escape from. All I had done was become the victim of failed bravado. The door scraped again and again no one stirred. I climbed into bed and closed my eyes, not to sleep, but to prevent the last bit of hope I had in me escape and be absorbed by the worn, white bed sheets. The door at the far side of the room opened and I heard footsteps, slowly walking towards my bed. I lay still, pretending to sleep. A figure bent down, pulled up the covers and kissed me lightly on my cheek. My mother stood over my bed for a minute and left silently. A human moment in a house of sadness and pain had made all the difference. A mother’s touch had somehow made things seem better. My day would end like every other, but the way it started was what counted to me. I hope that the kiss on my own son’s cheek will make all the difference one-day. Many nights I stand at his door and watch him sleep, hoping that when he sleeps, its not to escape the world, but to rest in the anticipation of a new dawn.
Copyright © 2001 Adagio |