childish fear

 A frightened child is a heart wrenching thing. All you want to do is hold them and tell them that everything is going to be ok, to soothe their fears away and make things right. What if you can’t?

 What if it's your child and the thing they are afraid of is you. Imagine a long dark hallway, a deep, deep green on the walls, almost black in the near dark. Your child stands in that hall, their arms up in front of their small bodies, looking as though they want to just crawl into the fetal position. Their lips are turned down in a mask of sadness, and their eyes are filled with tears that have yet to fall. You step toward them, and they step away. Their face the same, their body a statue save for the movement of their feet keeping away from you.

 You step again, and again they go back. You try to call to them, to beckon them to you so that you can take care of them, but only shouting comes out. Like a radio broadcasting some horrible story on the news on its highest volume, the words come screaming from your open mouth. The tears begin to slide down their cheeks. You try again, closing and opening, closing and opening, but always the yelling and the shouting come out. They are crying now, still just as far away as before. You close your mouth. You walk toward them, but always they move back. You speed up, and somehow their small legs match your pace.

 You run now, chasing after them, your hearts pounding like war drums as you push to catch them. But the gap never lessens. The distance is never shorter. You stop finally, red faced from exertion, breathing heavily, slightly stooped, and trying to catch your breath. Your child has stopped crying, they just stare at you as if seeing something they've been afraid of their whole lives. Then they just turn and run down the hall, and they are gone, swallowed up by the darkness.

 And then you see yourself, As if an image were projected in front of you. the red and angry face, the stooped posture and heaving breaths, the sound of shouting still coming from your open mouth. You see it all from a height of only a few feet off the ground, the height of a child, perhaps. You see the monster you must surely appear to be to them.

 And then you wake up. Your chest is heaving, your hands are clenched and wrapped around you, and your pillow and face are wet. What do you do? You get up, you get dressed, and you go to work, and change the radio station every time any song of children comes on…