The Scars of Abuse Last a Lifetime: Can You See Him?

Can you see him? He can’t be more than eight years old.  His blond hair hasn’t been washed or combed in days.  His clothes are oversized, torn and dirty.  See how he stands there with his little hands gripping the black cast-iron bars of the park fence.  His dirty little face is pressed between the bars as he observes the people on the other side.  His eyes reflect the conflict in his young soul.  One moment he seems to be a happy entertained observer.  The next minute he seems on the verge of tears.  The objects of his attention are children about his own age.  They are laughing, running, swinging, sliding and experiencing joy in the way all children should.  The young outsider also takes note of the mothers looking on with obvious affection.  He wants to climb the fence and join the other children on the playground but he can’t.  He doesn’t know how.  He finally shakes his little head and turns to walk away.  Can you see him?

He begins slowly, dejectedly to make his way down the sidewalk.  His head is down and his shoulders are sagging.  If he were not so small you would swear that the worlds weight was on his soul.  Once in a while his little head lifts as he glances at a home which displays obvious signs of children living in it. He notices a trampoline in that yard and a swing set in the next. As he continues his walk he sees bikes, skateboards, sandboxes and swimming pools. As he glances at these things his little face is blank except, perhaps, a guarded look of pain. Can you see him?

Did you notice his hesitation as he stopped on the corner?  See how he stares at the small, white wood framed house.  The house is in a state of disrepair.  The white paint is peeling and the black roof needs to be replaced.  The yard is un-kept and there are no signs of a child living there even though a child does live there. He lives there.  Why does he hesitate to cross the street?  Did you see him take a deep breath and square his shoulders?  With desperate determination he starts for the door.  Can you see him?

Can you see his little hand tremble as he turns the doorknob.  When the door is open enough to accommodate the action he sticks his head into the house and quietly looks and listens.  When he hears no sound from within he stealthily eases in and silently closes the door behind him.  The first thing he sees is his mother passed out on the sofa.  Around her lie the testimonies to her lifestyle.  Dried vomit decorates her clothes and the fabric of the sofa.  Empty whiskey bottles and beer cans are discarded mile markers for a life of self-indulgence.  A crack pipe, having offered up its sting, lies as still as the death it brings to so many people.  The little one hardly notices any of these things.  He has seen it all countless times.  He simply eases down the hallway towards his room.  As he passes the closet in which he has been imprisoned for days at a time an involuntary shiver moves through his body.  Can you see him?

He opens and closes his bedroom door with practiced fluidity.  When the door closes he leans his back against it as if to hold back all pain and misery.  After a few moments he walks toward a faded, torn, pink sleeping bag nestled in the corner of his room.  He pulls his tee shirt over his head and throws it on the floor.  Oh no, can your see his back.  Can you see all of the half-healed, perfectly round sores on his back?  He received those from his mother’s current boyfriend.  “Uncle” Jeff decided to teach him a lesson for being too noisy.  The little one learned his lesson as red-hot cigarettes were put out on his back over and over again.  Can you see him?

The only other thing in his room besides the old sleeping bag is the dirty, brown and worn teddy bear. The child picks it up, cuddles it and finally lets silent tears flow down his angelic face. Can you see him?

Can you see him?  He is over there by the gas pumps.  A minute ago he was going through the convenience store dumpster.  Look at him.  His beard is long and matted.  His hair is stringy and oily.  It has to be ninety-five degrees out here and he is wearing an old dirty green army jacket with no shirt underneath it.  His jeans are filthy and full of holes.  At his feet he has a red, beat-up duffle bag. By the way, what is that he has on his feet?  An old black converse tennis shoe with no strings on one foot and a brown boot on the other.  On top of that he absolutely reeks.  He hasn’t had a bath in months. Can you see him?

I don’t believe it.  He is taking off his jacket.  What is that?  As he turned to stuff his coat into the duffle bag I noticed countless small red scars on his back.  I wonder how he got those?  In the duffle bag, his jacket joined his only other possessions, a faded pink sleeping bag and an old worn out teddy bear.  Can you see him?  How can we compassion for the child and despise the man?