There was a time when he was happy, consumed with a love of the world and all it could offer him. He grinned at beautiful pictures and squealed at the Christmas toy he so eagerly awaited in that shrill way many children do. That is, until one day, when a good book lay in his lap and all was peaceful-- and his mother walked through the doorway, hands on her hips and a look of pure disgust upon her usually thoughtful and soft featured face. This particular book brought the little boy inexplicably fantastic joy, and he felt it added to life something he never realized was missing, which was understandable for he might as well have been drowning in his sea of loving friends and family. But now here she shouts at him, exclaiming over and over again that such a book was for little girls with pigtails and pink ribbon tied around their dresses. He is appalled at her response; she has never been so furious with anyone, let alone her son. She is coiling her scarf around her wrists, wringing her thin, bony hands like a wet dishcloth one fears will begin to stink in the summer. Her nails are bitten raw where they are usually painted, and her arms are colorless in the bright red of the moment. All the while, she is yelling, crying out for someone to help her and the fate she has been given. The boy cannot get out a single word, and as her face grows redder, he grows frustrated. Suddenly, there is a chorus of voices, a duet in which the cracks of muffled screams form notes. He is shouting, throat on fire, desperate for a voice that reaches farther than her own. The book is torn and lays on the wooden floor in two pieces. This only fuels his fury. He shouts, “Why are you like this, Mama? You can just leave!!”. It is quiet now as she silences, her little boy shivering in the tremendous heat of the summer. She walks out of the room, and the front door clicks slightly down the hall. The boy slumps against his bed, and, in doing so, hits the book lightly. In it, there are beautiful pictures of smiling children and the toys they sometimes are lucky enough to receive. Tear drops soil the ripped pages as the minutes pass and the boy waits tirelessly for his mother to return. A gnawing feeling churns his stomach, ripping it into shreds and slapping his insides through his body. He continues to wait for her to come back, to caress his head and kiss his cheek. She doesn’t, but it’s not his fault.