A short story
I hear the child crying, I hear the crack of the whip, I hear the deep pleas of the child, too often it reminds me of my childhood.
I am familiar with that scenario. I know the pain. I close my eyes and rest my head on my palms, make it stop, please. It’s getting too often, I know the reason the child is being flogged, he doesn’t remember the French word for ‘Come' but he remembers the theme songs for all the shows on Nickelodeon, she touched a book on her mother’s shelf — what business does she have there — she mixed a red top with the whites in the washing machine, stupid child!
I have to move to another neighborhood where there are less kids, the agent assures me there are not up-to 9 kids in total even then the parents are unproblematic.
I hear the child crying, I hear the crack of the whip, I hear that deep plea of the child, too often it reminds of my childhood. I am familiar with that scenario. I know the pain. I close my eyes and rest my head on my palms, make it stop, please. I can’t bear the sound of a crying child it triggers my anxiety and makes my head heavy, my heart beats faster, I sit up a little but it doesn’t matter because I am a successful business woman, I turned out fine. The caning made me sit up straighter in class, study my books better, respect my elders, stay away from mischief, work harder generally, right? I turned out fine, didn’t I?
I need to see a therapist, the way I feel is not normal. See a therapist. Maybe next month, maybe not, because I turned out fine.
