Baby steps ∽『boy ✮ boy -EDITED

Ninth 👣-edited

This chapter contains triggering subjects. Reader discretion is advised.

I was spinning, my hands held on cold iron bars and head tilted backwards, watching the cloudy morning sky. I was around seven years old, mindlessly playing in the merry-go-rounds while my dad watched me from a bench in the park. The playground was almost empty, the only sound spearing the air being the creak of the rusty hinges. Creak which got louder and louder almost making you believe the screws were crying. Then I realized it wasn't them who were crying. I could hear real sobs and sniffs coming from inside a playhouse. So I jumped from the still spinning merry-go-rounds and made my way to discover the source of the noises..

Inside the playhouse, a tiny girl was curled on the floor with her legs lifted against her chest and head hid behind her knees. With each sob her body shook and shuddered, reminding me of a little scared puppy. I've approached her carefully, crouching at her level when I was only a few feet away. Sensing my presence she looked up, her eyes widening before she rubbed her fists against her cheeks, cleaning them of tears,

"Hi." I've probed attentively, waving my hand in order to seem more friendly.

"Hi." The girl whispered back, drawing her knees closer to her chest.

"I am Carter. What's your name?"

"...."

I quirked a brow, tilting my head curiously before walking closer to the girl and sitting on the wooden floor next to her. Then I've crossed my hands around my legs and leaned my head on my knees, turning to look at her.

"Wanna be friends?"

The girl frowned.

"Why would you want to be friends with me?"

"Don't you wanna be my friend?"

"I do, but-"

"Then we are friends."

The girl looked at me then averted her gaze.

"Okay." She whispered.

A moment of silence passed between us before I finally made courage to ask why she had been crying.

"My-my daddy... He hit me."

"Why?"

"He said I was too weak for a boy."

So he was a boy, not a girl. My eyes widened in shock, but I didn't voice my surprise. Instead, I remembered what my papa told me to do when I saw or heard about parents hitting their children.

"Where did your daddy hit you? Could you show me?"

The boy sniffed, lifting his sleeve reluctantly, revealing his arm which was painted in purple and red bruises. My own eyes filled with tears.

"You have to tell your mommy...or your other daddy! Or we could tell my daddy and he could call the police!"

The boy shook his head vehemently.

"No, you can't do that!"

"Why?"

"Because-because I don't want daddy to go to prison. He didn't want to hurt me, he just punished me for being bad."

"But-"

Before I was able to finish my sentence the boy was already standing up and rushing out of the playhouse.