The Little Boy

The little boy who lives in a small, broken home suffers the haunting words of society. People laugh, people sneer, people even torment. How can they be so cruel? How can misanthropy be so misunderstood? How can they show such acts of cruelty and inhumanity, that they will purposely ravage the little boy in a broken home, like flies to waste? The little boy can only run so far, can only hide for so long before he is exposed. How long can the little boy absorb everything in his miserable life, like a rotten sponge on the bathroom floor? How long before he is cast out and never seen again? Who is to say that he even has the strength to handle life? Has anybody stopped to notice him? It doesn't seem that way.

The moon rises, and the little boy's strength falls. Water lies still in his bathtub. He lies still underneath it. His hair sways freely under the water. His eyes are closed. His mouth is permanently etched into a slight smile. The little boy is unresponsive to the yells throughout the broken home. They call his name in anger, and bang on the door, but he does not call back. He does not make a sound.
He floats.

The body is discovered, and the water is disturbed. The body is lifted from the bathtub and shaken. It does not move. It is cold. For the first time in years, the body is hugged. It is held tightly. Gentle hands almost did not belong on the body. Like so many times before, the body is hidden. It is bagged. It is taken away. Tears do not deserve to be spilt. Remorse does not atone your sins. Guilt does not atone your neglect. There is no balance. There is no return. Your misdeeds, your hurtfulness is far too heavily outweighed by your belated affection. What good are your tears now? What good are your words? The body cannot hear them. The body can not forgive you, and it never will.

The little boy is gone forever.

And you forced him away.