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Kyle sits
In a corner
Knees up
Head down.
Messy brown hair
Frames a fair face
As honey eyes flash
Darting around
Searching for the source
Of a sudden sound.

A door swings open,
A man walks in.
He walks
Towards the child,
The frightened, shivering child,
Sitting in the corner.
Rough hands grab
As small fingers
Put up a feeble fight.
Easily overpowered,
As the large body
Pins him to the ground.

One, two
Again and again,
Hands cross the pale face
Sharply hitting
As the dull thud
Of flesh hitting flesh
Fresh crimson
Fading grays and purples and blues.

Kyle closes his eyes
Knowing what comes next.
Thick fingers probe
The child's body
The infant spirit.
A tear creeps out
Squeezing through shut lids
Trickling down the seraphic face
As he feels an unwelcome hand
At his skin,
At his body.

Pain surges through him
Racking the shuddering form.
He silently screams
As eyes shoot open
Desperately seeking escape
From the horror
Yet finding none.

None too soon
It is over
As the shadow rises,
Gently cupping the bruised face
As he caresses it
In a gesture
Of so-called 'comfort'.
He embraces
The broken, battered body,
Pulling it closer
Before letting it fall to the ground,
The cold, hard ground,
And walking away.

And as the door
Shuts out the light
A small whimper
Of pain, of fright
Echoes through the empty room.

"Please... father... don't hurt me..."



© Marziya Mohammedali, 2001-2013