The Scarlet Boy

In the dim light of the dying light bulb, the boy put his hands under the freezing cold water that flowed from the water faucet. It had a little too much power behind it, seeming to drill into his cut and bleeding hands. The pure water turned a bright pink and, as it washed his wounds, a darker crimson.

Leaning forward, he put his forehead against the cold glass of the mirror and sighed. Looking himself in the eye, he shuttered, scared of what he’d just done.

“Just one more time,” he struggled to say, his throat aching. He bent down and splashed the water on his face, the tears mingling with the now dirty water.

“Just one more time,” he repeated, choking as he did. Coughing, he put a hand over his mouth to silence it and came back with blood splattered on his palm.

More blood. That’s all I need. He thought. Something boiled up inside of him. Not hatred, anger, rebellion, but a feeling he couldn’t exactly place. Familiarity, that’s what it was. He was used to the beatings and maybe, just maybe, he was addicted to the pain. He could feel the bruises forming on his ribs and abdomen; he could feel the blood coursing down his face in a steady stream.

He looked back at himself in the mirror, startled at what he saw. A defeated boy who was a mere child, broken and abused by someone who called himself ‘father’. Broken and abused by all of society. Broken and abused by the universe. Broken and abused by himself.

The feeling of familiarity was gone and all that was left was the hollow feeling of emptiness. The feeling of internal pain, emotional pain, physical pain. He wanted to bang his head against the wall until he knocked himself out. He wanted to punch both his fists through the metal cabinet in the corner just so he could feel the rush of pain again. Just so he could cry.

He turned the water off and stepped back, grabbing the dirty white towel from its hook on the wall. He buried his face in the course fabric, hot tears scorching his face.

When he took the towel away from his face, he saw only little drops of blood escaping from the fresh wounds and the towel wasn’t so white anymore. He tossed it in the corner with the rest of the dirty rags and headed for the door.

He opened it slowly and quietly as to not arouse his father in his drunken stupor. He let it swing shut behind him but caught it before it slammed. He didn’t want his father to know where he was going. He didn’t even think his father would notice he was gone till he started looking for someone to beat.

The boy clenched his jaw and walked down the dirt road, bare feet kicking up rocks and dust as he went. He wanted to look back, he really did, but he told himself he couldn’t. If he looked back, he would want to go back. Go back to his drug –the pain he had learned to relish. He made himself look forward and kept his feet moving, pushing himself onward. He was done with that life. He was done with the only pleasure in his life being pain. He was done.

But his heart told him otherwise. His poor and damaged heart longed to be somewhere where he was needed, not where he belonged. Even if his only purpose was to serve as a human punching bag, his heart told him that’s where he belonged.

And then he looked back. He couldn’t keep himself from looking back. He’d lost all self-control. But all he saw was an empty dirt road meandering through a field of weeds and thorns.

It was too late, he told himself. Too late. He didn’t belong there anymore. He’d find somewhere else. He had to, wanted to, needed to find a safe haven otherwise he’d just go back to the broken down house in the middle of nowhere where all you could smell was human waste and beer. Where all you heard was shouting’s and obscenities.

He was never going to go back. Never. He was done mistaking pain for belonging. After all, that’s what worthless, useless people believe. And he wasn’t that. Not anymore.