The Child That Screams For Ice Cream

Leaves on trees and the sound of the ice cream truck, rather van that I can’t see. A conversation held over a cell phone that I can’t really hear but I am listening to it and then music in my background. Stranger in this town. Moving is a great way to live. Always running away from the world, trying to hide, avoiding the problems.

Yes, it feels so much better than the real. It is the appeal of drugs and life, or what I would give to live my life. The prison that is my mind, and the hatred that seems to fill my heart. The evil, the dark, the twisted need to pick at the scab just for a small moment of pain. Is there anything better than the truth of pain?

Sometimes, no, not at all. Oh well, I feel like I’m in hell some days, some times. Relative time …related to and about to change, stuck, caught, unable to move...Trapped. Keep moving forward, oh Walt you black hating piece of pink trash with so much power to influence the little children, the perfect victims.

A child is too easy to manipulate, too young to see the wrong, and too naive to know any better…Ignorance is FEAR…If I didn't know real pain that one can feel, the scars that are on a soul, a heart, and a mind but they all pale to the ones on a body. 

I've seen a body, bloody, broken, dead and all alone and empty inside. I've looked into eyes that haven’t and will never again know the light of knowledge. Dark, clouded, unseeing eyes. Sometimes they are blue or green or grey or brown, the color of waste. Wasted time and it's relative. But these eyes cannot see anything anymore, let alone truth.

I wish, and I hope, and I scream. I screamed a silent voice that can’t be heard. The voice that has nothing to say or can’t and is unable to communicate. Okay, here it is my first true pain. I was three…I think I was three. As an outsider of that moment looking back I can still remember the first time I knew fear. I can’t see his face anymore. I don’t remember anything other than the fact that I can’t stand caramel apples. I won’t eat one, the very thought of eating one makes me vomit in my mouth, even now.

I remember feeling unable to say what was wrong. I was too young to know the difference between right and wrong. I knew I was hurting, but I wasn't really in pain…my mouth ached…and I was forced to do something I didn't understand…

I probably hated a lot of people for a very long time because of it…I hated him, and I wanted it to stop. That’s it, please let it stop…but I had no words, I could not say what was wrong because I didn't know what was happening to me. Scared…Oh so scared…Scarred...My world changed, all the times I’d felt safe and secure…I didn't hunger or shiver, I did not want much…I had no idea that was how evil a person could be...

For longer than I cared to remember I lost these thoughts, that moment. I lived, still naive to all that had happened. I was young. Too young. But I hungered and I shivered and I didn't know why. 


One night, right after I lost the blissful innocence, I remembered. I remembered the ice cream truck, rather van. The one would-be hero that failed me because I couldn't tell him what was wrong. See, I didn't know how to say what was wrong. I couldn't define it, had no words for it, and couldn't give it a voice. 

He gave me a caramel apple. I can't stand the taste of caramel and apples together. So he didn't understand because I didn't understand, and my nightmare began. It ended. 

So this is why I learned to give voice to my pain. Pain and truth. Painful truth time. Time. It's all relative. Related. Time passes and behaviors become learned and then there is me. I am who I am and I hate the sound of ice cream trucks, rather vans. I hate the taste of caramel apples. I hate that I scream, I screamed but never for ice cream.

1 comment:

  1. That made for a rather touching read. Thanks for sharing.