Childhood

She called him "child." She held him close to her breast, pressed her cheek against the top of his head; she crooned in her mother tongue that echoed familiarly within his ears and let her fingers comb slowly through his hair, and she called him a fucking child

But he had never been a child. Never. Never.

Children were not supposed to root through garbage bins for their nightly supper. Children were not supposed to be pressed down against silk and satin sheets, and children were not supposed to be forced to part their legs in anticipation of being violated irreparably. There were some damages that could never be healed.

Never.

Never.

Children were not supposed to stare into the mirror and wonder why their gaze looked so empty.




Children were not supposed to—









Children were not—














Children were.








He was not a child.