The bad days

If innocence were a river, then I was never allowed to go swimming. I was pulled back by the hair before I ever had a chance to dive in. I never felt the icy water kiss my burning flesh. 

Unable to be pulled from depths I was never allowed to venture into, I was confined to the beach. Only able to view the kids who played jubilantly in the shallows. I often imagined what it would be like to be one of them, but I never got the chance to properly imagine the freedom they were afforded. My mind would be brought back to more horrific things. More realistic things. 

As we walked home I would glance back at the beach until it left my sight, and as the sun set I would listen as loving parents called out to their children, interrupting their blissful foolishness to notify them that it was their turn to go home. 

If innocence were a household, I was never invited inside. I was always left standing on the doormat. That welcome mat would be the closest that I would ever get to being invited into a place so comfortable. I would never feel the warmth of the fireplace that burned inside, and the flavor of the food that had been cooking all evening would never touch my tongue. 

I often looked through the window and watched children eat with their families, and talk about the trivial things that they found exciting, and I would imagine what it was that they said before being pulled away from the window by my hair. At my own house there was no food as reality was forced down my throat. 

If innocence were a person, I never got to meet her. She was a kind lady, and I gazed dreamily as she interacted with the other children that I saw. I would watch as she read stories to those children, and I would feel envy when she laughed at the jokes they told. 

When I passed by her, I would wave and I would pull a smile back across my face, but of all the times I saw her, she never noticed me. I would turn my head to look behind me as she walked passed. I would watch her wave to the child that walked behind me before having my head twisted back around, the grip of a firm hand pulling at my hair. 

I would listen to the child's laughter, and then her own as we walked in the opposite direction. I looked up at the face to which the hand that held mine belonged, but no smile was afforded to me, no attention at all.  

One day, I saw her again, though. This time the interaction I saw her partaking in wasn't as joyful as I had come to expect. She was with a young, weeping child and as I walked by I heard her comforting him. But the words she uttered were not meant to benefit the boy, as every single syllable that left her mouth had been a lie.