A camera

A small child about eight years old is sitting alone in a schoolyard.
He is depressed.
He is often depressed.
At school he is bullied heavily.
At home he is emotionally neglected.
He does not understand the empty feeling he feels, the feeling he would later learn was loneliness.
He does not understand why.
He cannot make his sorrow leave.
He cannot find comfort.
So he does what most children do when neglected.
He blames himself.
This is his fault.
This is the way the world works.
It is his place to suffer and fail.
He cannot win or succeed.
It is his place to suffer and fail.
This he believes.
This he thinks.
He cannot cry for he fears it will make things worse.
He cannot ask for help for he fears he would suffer from asking.
A glinted coin smiles at him from the trodden mud.
He pockets it.
The school is holding a raffle that day.
A whim, he buys a ticket.
Money forever lost for he simply cannot win, even at a game of chance.
This he thinks.
His number is the second called.
He is gifted with a wonderful, shiny new camera with numerous, essential accessories held in a big, beautiful box.
He is happy.
This means he is wrong...
This means he can succeed...
This means there is hope...
That not everything will turnout as he believed it will.
That one day he will no longer be burdened with that empty feeling.
That he won't always be bullied.
That he might lead a happy, joyous life in the end.
He is proud.
For the first time he can remember he is proud.
He is excited.
He hadn't wanted a camera before.
But it didn't matter what it was, he was going to cherish it.
It was his.
He was going to care for it.
He was going to take pictures of everything he had ever liked, that had ever made him feel good.
Then he was going to take pictures of the pictures and cherish each one.
He was going to care for it, clean it, keep it.
He was going to cherish it.
He approached his mother's car.
He is proud.
For the first time he can remember he is proud.
He has finally done something he feels is worthy of approval.
He shows it to her.
She smiles.
She is usually uncaring or grim but for once she smiles.
"That's nice we could use a new camera" she says.
All happiness vanishes from him.
"But it's mine..." he mumbles.
"You can have one of the older ones" she replies.
He doesn't argue.
He knows she will not listen, she will not care.
Speaking only makes things worse.
This he believes.
This he thinks.
This he knows from countless prior arguments.
Brooding he enters the car.
The drive back is silent.
It always is.
They arrive home.
His big, beautiful box is taken from him by hands stronger than his own.
An old battered camera is pushed into his hands.
It is cracked.
He hates it.
He takes two pictures of his ceiling before the vile thing decides never to work again.
He watches the camera be taken out of it's box and placed on self with the other cameras.
It is beautiful, shiny and out of his reach.
He cannot cry.
But he does anyway