Broken children at play

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The blue caddy

The car that killed me was a 74′ Cadillac and it was blue in color. My brothers

and I were in a foster home at the time. It was my sixth birthday and like any

red blood American child I wanted candy to celebrate. My older brother Ed was

tasked with taking me to a corner store to get some penny candy. As we came to a

street I decided that I was old enough to cross the street myself. I pulled away

from my brother’s grip and ran into the path of an on coming car. I was told most

of this because I don’t remember what happened. That is not entirely true. I

remember exactly what transpired. I died on my sixth birthday under a car.

I was told that the bumper of the Cadillac hit me and I bounced off but in reality

I was dragged under the passenger side of the car.The front tire runs over my back

crushing the majority of my ribs. As the wheel ran over my body and destroying

my new clothes it violently turns my body over. The rear tire flattens

my sternum pushing blood, urine and feces from all of my orifices. I will be alive

for another three minutes.

My older brother is on his knees. He is too shocked to even cry. People gather to

see the boy who has died on his birthday. I think of my brother Raymond and my

mother. How will they react when they discover that I have died.

I tell myself that I am not died. I tell my self that this is little more then a

scratch and I will be back at my foster mother’s May house in a week or two. I tell

my brain to make believe that I go back to my mother’s care in a few months time.

I make my brain tell me that I am 7 years old and living at 730 N Sawyer and my

best friend is still Christopher Wright. My mind has experienced such pain that

it refuses to let me be happy. My mind knows happy it not normal for me. It creates

scenarios were I am molested by a friend of my older brother. It let’s me think

that I spend cold winters huddled in one room with the rest of the family and hot

summers with no electricity or gas. It makes me feel alone and abandoned. My mind

lets my know that suicide is an option that I will gladly indulge when the pain

is too great. Even brain lets me find a love but only to cheat on her shortly

after the birth of our first child. My dying brain makes me a shiftless and

lazy man who is a bad copy of a father and husband who can’t hold a job and feel

sorry for myself.

I fight for control of my dying minutes. I push happiness into my mind. I help

to make kids who will become adults that my wife and I will be proud of. I

overcome my troubled mind to become a better person. I make my mind push myself

through school and beyond. I make myself see my grandchildren and great

grandchildren who are every color of the rainbow. I make my brain see me on

my death bed with my children and the woman I love around me.

Then I close my eyes.

Things I use to believe

I used to believe that women were actually better than men. A few bad relationships

cured me of that.

When I was a kid I thought humans were like plants and if you give them water and

sunshine their limbs would grow back. odd right.

Before I became what you call an atheist I believed reincarnation and I had

dreams of past lives and I assumed that I would be born an indian boy in the next life.

A part of me still thinks that are dreams are glimpses into alternate realities.

I thought that if a gay couple adopted a “normal” child that they would make him

gay.

White people use to weird me out when I was young. I thought they smelled like wet

dog.

(I married one so clearly I got over it).

I used to wonder what was behind the sun.

I used to think that a girl’s vagina was a lot closer to her belly button.

I thought that getting molested would make me gay. I got the distinct feeling

that my family thought the same.

I used to think that my parents would get back together.

I USE TO THINK THAT IF I CONCENTRATED REALLY HARD THAT I WOULD MAKE MYSELF FLY.

I use to think I was special.

I knew for a fact that I would never cheat on my wife.

I use to think no women would ever love me.

I use to think that there would never be a “black” president.

I use to believe that mankind could prevail over its own nature.

I use to think someone was watching over us.

I use to try and tell myself life could be fair.

I use to think a lot of things that turned out to be false

or an half truth. The only thing that I know for sure is

that this man loves this wife and kids and hopes the world

can pull it’s head out of it’s ass.