I wrote this from the point of view of my seven year old sons subconscious.
I’m a boy, or so they say. I have dark hair and freckles. I’m small, but I’m tough. And I’m a lot smarter and older than what they say. People want to believe I’m sweet and innocent, and so I let them. I like it sometimes, when it plays to my advantage.
When I’m mad I want them to see me for who I really am, not sweet or innocent, I’m angry because they do not know me, even though they act like they have me all figured out. They don’t. I want them to know that I can take care of myself. I don’t need anyone to tell me what to do, or how to act. I have my own mind, I am my own person, I’m a lot smarter than they think I am. I’ll be just fine taking care of myself. I don’t need anyone, and I’m sure they don’t need me.
I remember most things. Sometimes people tell me things I do not remember, but I know they’re true because of how uncomfortable the conversations are. I don’t remember slamming my car into my brothers head, or why, but I know I did. All I know is that I was angry. I remember the look on my dads face, filled with frustration because he didn’t know what to do. He had to carry me away to my room, but I know he didn’t want to. He had to. He didn’t want to leave his other son on the living room floor crying. I knew I did wrong.
Sometimes I’m to tired to move. I like to watch the sun set and rise outside my bedroom window. I like to sleep next to my dad because he hugs me and keeps me safe and warm. I don’t like to get up for school, so sometimes my other dad comes in and dresses me while I sleep. I do not fight it because I know that I am safe and warm, and I do not want to move.
I make my dads proud when I show them how smart I am. I can read big words, and I can even spell better than my older brother. My dads like to learn new things too, just like me. When they work, I work, when they read, I read, when they watch T.V., I watch T.V. My one dad likes to read books to me. He also likes to draw. I don’t always realize it but sometimes I’m actually happy around here. Sometimes I even fit right in.
But like I said, I don’t remember everything and so sometimes, when I’m mad, they have to remind me of all these things, because I forget that I was ever happy.
My caseworkers say they’re not going to see me anymore, and they ask me if I’m happy here, because this is going to be my home forever. I just cross my arms and say that I’d be a lot happier if they’d buy me more stuff. Really, I’m just afraid of letting go of the past. But as soon as they leave I forget all about it, and life goes back to normal.