I hear the cries. I keep running, searching, but I can’t find him. Again, the belt cracks. I run faster, aimlessly, I must find this child. I’m about to give up, when I see him.

He’s lying on his back, naked with exception to baggy underpants and pair of worn men’s cowboy boots. I see the crimson nails, wrapped tight against the black hissing leather belt. The hand draws back, another striking blow; the sound of leather against leather; the boots caught the bite.

The child keeps his booted legs upright, trying to break the belt’s wrath; not this time, as the leather brazes fire along his small ribcage. I’m watching, frantically clawing at the locks as I scream “Let me in boy.”, but he doesn’t hear me. One last whip of the belt and the boy turns to look me in the eyes. The crimson claws drop the hissing leather, I wait anxiously as the child slowing lifts his welted body from the floor, and then he stops. “Come to me child, let me help you, I’ll save you, just let me in.“, I plead.

I hear footsteps and soon see the buttery creme colored hem of a woman’s dress. For a moment I am put to ease, for she has surely come to save this poor child. As the woman comes closer, I see the crimson nails, I scream to the boy “Run child“, but he does nothing. Instead he waits. Soon the woman falls to the ground embracing the child’s frail body, the child does not recoil. His shaking hand pushes the raven colored hair back from the woman’s china white face, and he kisses her cheek gently as he whispers “Don’t cry Mama.”

The phone rings and I am awakened with a start. Where is the boy? My heart is racing as I fumble for the cordless handset. It is my sister. I need to get to the house as Mother is having another crisis. Within 35 minutes I am in my Mother’s mint colored bedroom, watching her hands shake, she sobs in despair.

My Mother has been diagnosed bipolar and prone to attacks. They seem to come more frequently as our lives become busier. We, her children, become more involved with our own, time passes between visits, and Mother has yet, another attack. Today is no different. I console her, I soothe her, and when she sobs her last tear, I pull the soft blankets up around her. She is calm now. I sit watching her for another hour until her eyes flutter no more. The crisis has passed. I take the crumpled tissues from her crimson red fingernails, push her graying hair back, kiss her china white cheek gently, and tell her “Don’t cry Mama“, before closing the door behind me.