Caramel boy

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic


its a story on child abuse that i'm putting in for a contest. would really like some feedback on this!

Submitted: September 18, 2018

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Submitted: September 18, 2018

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Caramel Boy

 

I saw all the signs and warnings. I just didn’t heed them in time. When he was younger, I used to look at him from a distance near the park I would go after work when I had to walk the dog. He was a cute child, orderly and sweet. They didn’t deserve this.

 

I usually walked my dog, Porky, to the park and back home after work for a small exercise. I don’t know why I could always see him there with his mother. I just thought they needed to go out for some fresh air, and enjoy the park for a minute or two. But there he would be every day. In a small sized red and black stroller, with pockets on the sides for holding things. He had chubby cheeks, two small front teeth on the bottom of his mouth, cute brown-hazel eyes, black hair, small finger and legs, and skin the color of rich caramel. This is when i first saw him. He would always have his mother by his side, watching over him like a hawk, ready to fight for her son if anyone tried to hurt him. This defensive mechanism was used by all parents, so i never thought hers was out of line until I peered through my window one night.

 

We were neighbors, you see, and I could see whatever was happening through my blinds in my living room. So this particular night in the summer when it was hot, I heard voices. Loud and strong. I recognized one of the voices immediately. It was the boy’s mother, Maria. The other voice talked in a mixture of angry Spanglish. I could hear Maria’s powerful voice beg for mercy. I looked my window to clearly see her boyfriend standing over her, while she was crouched on the ground sobbing. She ran over to the door of the baby’s room, holding her arms out to block her boyfriend from getting in the room. Through all this I realized that the whole time the baby was crying. Maria’s boyfriend dragged her by the hair and threw her to the side. I knew it was the baby’s room because I could hear the screams get louder a minute later. They were immediately silenced after I heard a thump. The worst wasn’t over. I heard Maria scream and whimper after her boyfriend dragged her by the hair again to their room. It was over when the door slammed. I was shocked and scared. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I decided it was best to confront her myself.

 

I took Porky to the park the next day and saw her and the boy in their usual spot. The center of the park, next to the swings. “Maria.” I said. She looked at me, with a peculiar expression as if to ask, “Why are you talking to me?” I started to speak again. “I saw what happened yesterday.” Her soft eyes went wide with horror. “You didn’t see anything!” She exclaimed wildly. “Nothing happened yesterday!” I quickly calmed her down and tried to explain. “Look, I don’t mean any trouble.” I said. “I just want to help you and him.” I pointed to the child. She shook her head, her black hair flying wildly. I finally saw her face. Her black hair was messy, as it had been shaken.

Her eyes were scared, telling me that she was afraid. Her face was bruised with a giant black eye in her left eye, which she had tried to cover up but failed. I wanted to help her so badly. She needed it. Also, her son. Her son looked horrible. His face and his legs were bruised. I told her, “Your boyfriend hits you. He abuses you and your son. I can help you.” I exclaimed. She started walking away, ignoring me. She pushed the stroller violently, and her son started crying. In the distance, I could see her boyfriend looking at me from afar. He scowled, and harshly grabbed her arm and dragged her while she tried to hold the stroller. I heard the boy’s cries all the way home. Tears welled in my eyes. If that boy and his mother died, I don’t know what I would do. Ever since I was young, I’ve known not to stand for injustice. My childhood wasn’t the best, and I feel as if I can connect with those two. I’ve seen my own share of rape and abuse. And to see someone else go through that… it breaks my heart. But II can’t act on it. I can’t act on how i feel. It’s just too dangerous.

 

That night, I looked out the window again to see Maria with an angry facial expression. Her arm looked broken horribly, and she was sweating as if she had been fighting intensely or something. I could see that she was extremely exhausted, and I concluded that she was probably fighting for the baby again. I saw her boyfriend pacing around the room and talking at the same time. He had something in his hand, and he quickly went inside to the baby’s room. Maria screamed. I heard a soft boom, winced and gasped. I looked to see Maria in the corner sobbing and screaming uncontrollably.

 

Her boyfriend punched her with the gun and said something to her. She rushed to the baby’s room and I saw her tired hands carry the dead body of her son in her arms. I looked away for a few seconds. She laid him in the stroller to look proper, and she straightened herself to look normal. She quickly pushed the stroller to their usual spot in the park. I silently watched from a distance. She bent low to say goodbye to her son, whispering words of wisdom, empathy, guilt, and courage. Then she left the stroller and ran sobbing. I ran to the stroller after she was gone, calling 911. I hesitated, and with tears in my eyes, i slowly lifted the head of the stroller up to see the boy. And there, with a bullet in his head, blood slowly pouring out, skin turning blue with each second, was the lifeless body of the caramel boy.


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