He was pathetic.
A dry shriveled mackerel of a boy who constantly sniffled and wept.
What an idiot.
A light snowflake caught his eyelashes and fluttered into his fingers.
He shifted in his seat on the hard cold bench, his fingers playing with the snow that gracefully landed in his hands.
The year’s first snow. How lucky he was, to catch it.
A wind sang softly in his ears, and he shivered. He would soon have to go home.
He shivered again, unrelated to the icy breeze. His cheek still stung from his mother’s blow.
He saw her there, hunched with a world’s burden on her shoulders. She would stand in the tiny, dim-lit kitchen, muttering to herself, while stirring cabbage soup.
A world of pain went in that soup.
She would turn towards him as he timidly stepped forward, her face twisting into rage. She would reach for the spoons.
They were harsh spoons, made of wood and left him countless splinters. A lash here, a thud there.
Pain, swimming before his eyes.
She would hurl the words at him.
You’re a spiteful, lazy brat. Just like your father.
He was a stupid drunkard who left me with nothing but you.
You useless idiot.
You’ll grow up to be just like him.
A worthless man-whore.
By that point, he would be on the rubber floor, trying to gasp air into his lungs, while his eyes started to swim. And an unspeakable pain would begin in his chest.
A throbbing would start in his back, spreading like fire from his cheeks to his legs.
And she would kick him aside, to go back to cooking.
He ran out of there, ignoring the harsh pain.
A day in the park.
It was a jolly set of words.
Gave you a picture of a family in yellow sundresses and hats, with the father playing catch with his sons, the mother telling stories to the girls, her little ones. They would be sitting on red-checkered blanket, a picnic basket open, sandwiches spread out among them. A bright green meadow, dotted with yellow flowers, while people passed by them, sitting on benches, and a playground loomed in the open.
He wished for it so desperately.
But a day in the park for him would be a cold hard bench, deserted grounds, and the icy wind blowing through his heart. And always, a hot tear dripping into his hands.