Do they not touch boys with their dirty fingers? Are girls their only victims?
Child abuse has never been the means of entertainment, rather it is a weapon to burn that little childhood alive.
A child is an extension of mankind. But what if some non-living atom in the living element, tries to burn that childhood?
What happens when one’s childhood is torn apart from the page of his 10-year life journal? What makes his embodiment suffer the darkness of an uncomfortable aisle? What leads his body to die under the filthy shadows of his own relational signature?
An issue, not dealt with much, when spitting the noises of child abuse, is that the abuse for the “She” category is only taken care of.
What if you were kept in the boiling lamps of such awkward hugs, or if your comfy pants were torn off by your own relations’ blood?
We do overlook the “He” Sex. We do pardon our eyes in believing that the person trying to mob our son’s privacy, is showing love to our little tiger.
Do you feel his internal fears that he has kept in a locked safe? Or, are you aware of the bleeding dilemma which was born as an infant, but could grow to be a monster, eating away his own survival?
You cannot feel that fear.
You just rested your eyes for your trust on that beast. You fear to open your eyelids to view the nudity of this relation.
A darker environment is set to project the poise of the tiger, trying to mop his noise from the born monster within.
Let’s rub our naked blind eyes to just view this serene scene, the writing of which, made this writer even feel ashamed. This writer was guilty of the society, he sheltered himself in.
It was a suffocating day with a significantly sharp night when I was invited to a birthday party. The darkened night fired my brain neurons when the night owls themselves tried to shower me with an incident.
I visited the party at 7. I started narrating my glowing eyes over the 26-year-old gang. The gang was noted to be busy with the 22-year-old alluring curvy gals, whooping over the marble floors, and breaking the glassy music for the guys around.
It was the birthday of a 45-year old pal. My instinct went on to visit his eager gift-receiving hands. He had also invited his younger brother’s son, Shreyansh.
Briefing you of that little prince, I can visualize an iconic creation. He was an idol of glued innocence, sticky enough to never leave his purest blood.
I had even wandered his communal presence, talking about any social dilemma and issues faced in the new normal. His age is younger than his intriguing mind, that he even knows how to acknowledge the sociopaths around us.
He is just 10, skimming his dignity and becoming an all-rounder, with his IQ surpassing the low-level academics. He wants to create social reforms in the very next phase of his childhood.
He is a boy, never met before, to be considered a nature’s enticing creativity.
Pointing our eyeballs to the present moment. That party went well, with my gift tied to my sweaty palms, trying to detach and surrender to the hands of our birthday pal.
My inquiring yet gnarling footsteps were nearly approaching an atrocious stop.
The door of that closed arena told me that a lot had happened before my appointed visit.
That very port to enter the inner volume, screamed the kid’s blubbering sobs.
The door saw that frowning head of a kid, with his nails marking a sharp yet mourning print on its ply.
The nail print was a sign of his pitch-black fear, which could be visualized by that kid’s inner eyes. The nail print was harmless to even hurt that sticky gate.
Nonetheless, my footsteps were emotionally strong to reach the door. I banged at it, but even the existence of furniture couldn’t be heard from that distance. It became obvious that silence had grabbed the room’s tongue and made a pledge to never release it.
After banging harder, the door opened, uncovering the grieving balm of the space within. I saw a boy’s head smashed in blood, overflowing from his unstructured skeletal body.
He lay with his chest, kissing the dirt on the grounds. The earth on which he lay, was guilty of its own presence to view the ugly incidents of the room.
The backdoor of the room was wide open, with the hints that this thirsty murderer spilled out of the crime spot.
The police were summoned. When the officers twisted the kid around, my hands shivered, when I saw my best friend’s son, Shreyansh lying dead.
He was only wearing a wave of chilled smoking anger, to enlighten us to the fact that some carnivores have attacked his respect. His deadly attire conveyed that the carnivores have tried to taste his soul, and deprived a mother of her most-loved disciple.
The room became a sickening destination for the members to weep.
What happened to Shreyansh? Was he suffering the biggest blunders of his life? Or had the voracious animal already harmed its new victim?
None of Shreyansh’s parents could speak a single letter of his death. They became numb when their rough eyelids started to stream a ton of red water.
It symbolized the infuriated distress towards a cheap mindset of an animal.
The police examined his body and found fingerprints of a man, a sociopath whose age lay seated in the 40–50 years arena. They did not find any jaws or clues, claiming that it was not an animal’s deed. It was rather a psychopath animal’s act, who could speak the breeds of a man.
He was inhuman to have already established a dead-end of mankind.
The officers tried to scrutinize every footprint around that death of noise. They managed to trace the imprints of the culprit from that same backdoor.
The case was getting intriguing when they found that the backdoor opens in a jungle. They bumped their feet towards the jungle, with their ears amplifying every signal, they could absorb within.
The criminal beast covered himself under the umbrella of rocks, mounted under a banyan tree. Uncovering that beast to light, tore apart everybody’s brain in shock. We all saw the death of humanity by the birthday pal himself.
The guests stayed contented when Shreyansh’s father took the grand courage to yell at his elder brother and soak him in his own dreadful sin.
Further investigation of his reasons for crime uncovered another buried box of mysteries. That beast opened up his tongue of blood, revealing his grimy act.
He dolefully trajected his incident :
“I forced Shreyansh into the room of peace, with not even an insect to walk around”.
He continued, “I was the one to close the doors of guilt alone with Shreyansh”.
“I then made him sat on my lap, touched his sexy thighs, and wandered my magnetic fingers across his breast. He told me that it was getting uneasy and quested for his parents. But I managed to steer his embodiment, seducing him from within, chuckling at his screaming weep.”
He threw a horrid smile, whilst speaking out the kid’s howls.
He persisted in his monologue, “The little kid banged the wooden structures, but the party songs buried every dust of crime beneath. I tore his clothes, starting off with the filthy pants. The time he went nude, made him snatch me and bite my untamed skin.”
“That was the hour of my seductive happiness, but the kid repelled away from my horny body, scratched his sharp little nails over the door.”
That selfless unashamed body of the devil resumed his satanic speech,
“I drew his legs and tortured him to wear nothing but a smile. Then to rescue him from the harsh game, I smashed his head on that furniture, which was itself feeling ashamed of its own eyes.”
The animal of mankind was hanged to justify the wrongdoings. It was done to sign the death of the devil, the day that infiltrated monster was even born.
Child Abuse is a heartless blindfolding disease, which should always be treated sinful. Whether that’s a man of 45 or a man in his 90s, he cannot be titled sinless.
Oh that dreadful night,
Who made a crime scene tight,
But that lustful fight,
Led the culprit, die on his crime night,
For a story told right,
With the readers awestruck by that dying light,
To mark a feverish yet a cordial sight.
