The Empty Children

Today is a Monday. The first day of the week; the day that all students dread. Everyone is back from their weekend, and as they sit down in their seats, you start to take attendance. You mark down one of the students as absent, Abby Parker. She's eight, a year younger than the other children in your class, but she's a smart little girl. Last week, her mother came to Parents Night, but her father was busy. Jeremy Stevens is acting up again, before you've even had a chance to talk. You scold him for pinching the girl in front of him and stealing her books. All he does is look away, and sit farther down in his seat. You'll have to call his parents later today, and you hope they pick up this time. Caroline Hart has her nose buried in a book again, and when you finally ask her to put it away, she doesn't make a sound. You heard about her older sister Cathleen who disappeared a few months ago, and wonder if she needs comforting. Perhaps her parents need some comfort too, since they didn't come to Parents Night last week. Michael Donovan called in sick again today. He calls in sick nearly every week, and his homework just keeps piling up. His father is never there when you call, and his poor mother always sounds so distraught because he keeps getting sick. You wish her well every time. Attendance is now finished, and you put away the papers in your desk. The voices of the children slowly fade away into complete silence. It's time to start the class.

Its dinner time, and Mommy's yelling at you to come down. You don't want to, because you know that he is home tonight. Daddy yells at you this time, a lot louder than when Mommy yells. You don't like it when Daddy yells, or when Daddy gets angry. They almost always happen at the same time. But you go downstairs anyway. It's late, and the food is cold, you know it. Mommy made it just for Daddy, because it's his favourite, but he didn't come home on time, just like last night. He always comes home late; you hear his car pull up just as you fall asleep every night. The plate that she put together is still full, and they don't look at each other. Mommy looks tired and scared, but Daddy's looking straight at you. You don't like it when he looks at you like that. You can still feel the place on your face where he hit you last night, after you told him to stop hurting Mommy. She was crying on the floor, and the red stuff on her face scared you. It still hurts, and you know that the black spot on Mommy's face hurts too. When dinner's done, Mommy tucks you into bed, but doesn't kiss you goodnight as Daddy comes in. He shuts off the light and locks the door, but he doesn't leave. You wonder why he isn't leaving with Mommy, when he smiles as he tells you that you aren't going to school this week and pats your hair.

You hate going to school. You like it, the books and the learning, but going to school in the morning means that you have to come back home at night. And you don't like coming back home. Because your home isn't a home. It's just a big empty house, and most of the time, you're the only one in it. You spend your weekends alone in the basement, watching TV while you wish for someone to watch it with. You don't have any siblings, no one to talk to, and you don't like bringing friends from school home. Not that you have many friends, or any at all. You hate all the kids in your class. You hate the blond girl who sits in front of you, who always smiles and laughs and whose Mommy and Daddy always pick her up after school with smiles on their faces. You tug her hair and knock her books down, and think about all the times that you have had to walk home by yourself. You hate her because she's happy and you aren't; because she has a family and you don't. At least, it doesn't feel like you do. There's dinner in the fridge when you get home, but it's packaged, and you spend five minutes figuring out how to use the microwave again. You eat alone, like always. Sometimes the cleaning lady who doesn't speak any English comes over, but all she does is wash your laundry and clean your room, and then you're alone again. As you eat dinner, the phone rings. It's Mom, but you barely have time to pick it up before she hangs up. You throw it down on the floor, hearing her tell you she won't be home tonight. It smashes into a hundred pieces, but you don't pick it. You won't even get punished for it, because Mom and Dad don't have the time to bother. You decide to go to bed early tonight, because you hate the silence of the house. The other phone rings just as you are falling asleep. It's Dad this time. You let it ring.

Mommy and Daddy are fighting again. You don't like their fights. When they fight, they break things, and the last time they had a fight, the book Grandma gave Cathy for her birthday was torn to pieces. You remember how she cried over the pages, as Mommy and Daddy kept yelling at each other. Cathy hasn't been home in weeks, and the nice police men are still looking for her. They ask you questions, if she was having trouble at school, or if she was having a 'relationship' with anybody. You think about the last time Cathy tried to make friends. Mommy saw them standing on the sidewalk outside of the house. Cathy wasn't allowed to see them again. The officers ask you if Cathy wanted to run away. You think about the time that Daddy caught her climbing out the window with a backpack. You didn't see her all weekend after that, and her door was locked every time you tried to open it. But you heard her crying at night, through the walls, when you knocked on it every morning, and every night. You don't say anything, because you know if you do, Mommy and Daddy will get angry, and then you'll have bruises like Cathy. You hear the yelling again, and wonder if anybody will listen if you tell the truth. But you don't want to have bruises like Cathy. And you don't want to be taken out to the shed like her. You saw her that night, as Mommy and Daddy closed the door and turned out the light. So you lie. You hide behind your books, and you lock your door when you hear fighting. And you don't say a word.

You don't like this. Being stared at, or told that it's going to be okay, that's going to get better. You sit in the chair with the big wheels beside Mommy in the living room as she cries (you don't know why), and everybody hugs her. You wish somebody would hug you. You feel so heavy and tired, and your body hurts so much. Mommy looks so sad, but she's not sick. You are the one who is sick. You've been sick for a long time, ever since Daddy left that one night. Ever since then, you wake up feeling terrible almost every day. Today's a Monday. You like Mondays, it's the beginning the week. You get to go to school today. But today you're sick, and Mommy says she doesn't want you to get the other children sick. She made you soup last night, the kind that she always makes. She tells you it is going to help you get better. It tasted funny, just like all the other times. You don't say anything about it; you don't want Mommy to get upset like the last time Daddy thought her cooking was bad. So you eat everything, even if the taste makes your tummy feel funny. But you are hungry now. You try to tell Mommy, but she doesn't seem to hear you. It's getting harder and harder for you to speak and to stand, ever since the last 'operation' you had. Mommy went to the doctors the day before, and you went into the big white room that night. You still hurt all over, it's only been a few weeks since then. It's time to give you your pills, Mommy says. She pulls out the orange bottle that she brought home one night, the one with the big round candies that she let you eat five of. Except the candies don't taste so good anymore; they make you feel heavy and weak and sick. Once everybody is gone, Mommy takes you upstairs and puts you in bed. She makes you eat more of the candies. Then, she brings you your soup, hot and ready to eat. You hope it doesn't taste funny this time.

These are the empty children. These are the children who hide in the shadows, hiding from the monsters that plague them day and night. These are the children who hide their scars underneath jackets and sweaters. These are the children who take out their pain on others. Do you see what there is inside? Do you see the childhood that they may never have, that will always just dangle right out of reach? Do you see the bruises? Do you see the fear? Do you see the shadows that follow them? You could have been them. You might have been them. You could have been the little girl who watched as your daddy hit your mommy, feeling the sting of the slap when you tried to stop him. You could have been the boy who slowly got sicker as your mommy drank in the attention that your sickness drew. Maybe you forgot. Maybe you forgot what it is like to live in a world where you are not safe. Maybe, when you forgot about yourself, you forgot about them. They were once your brothers and sisters, scattered in every direction but united by the terrors you faced together. But you don't see them, even if you weren't a brother or a sister. You pass by them, and you don't hear the way they scream for help. You don't see through the smiles that don't reach their eyes. You don't see the emptiness inside. You don't see the empty children.