Imagining

I like rain. Dark, grey, sleepy days. I'm not much of a sunlight person. Never really appeals to me. Night, or rain. That's my favorite. But i'm not a troubled person. Night, well, it's when I'm most creative, most happy, mostly because the day is over, and you can process it.I'm going to tell a story that is true. I'm not going to change names, I'm not going to change settings. It is absolutely real. At least as real as my memory allows it to be.
My mother was busy around the house, at least, as busy as she knew how to be. She was cleaning clothes off the floor, and they stunk, filled with scabs, and dirt, and heat. Little boy clothes. She put them all in the hamper, her poor nose buried in them. She let out a big puff of air, and for a moment her face scrunched up, and her eyes were watery. The sunlight coming into the room was milky and warm. Perfect day. She opened the doors to let the light, and some fresh air, in. Her hair seemed to be all matted onto her head with cold sweat, and she blew at it casually. Everything was done time to enjoy some soap opera, or maybe some House Hunting(Her way of window shopping for thing she would never be able to have). As she flipped the channels on the brainfryer(Aka T.V.) she remebered that in about three hours, she would have three very hungry young boys. And her mind raced with all sorts of nagging questions they would pin her with.
"What's for supper?"
"Can we have McDonalds?"
"I'm hungry!"
"Are you gonna cook... does that mean we're going out to eat? Can I pick the place?"
She shrugged it off, sat up, and turned the television off.
She was stirring the peas that went along with her shitronni(which is what we loving refer to as macoroni with beef and ketchup) when her cell-phone made that annoying ring that actually sang her name.
"Yes?... yeah. Is scooby snack all right? I didn't think yall any more of that left over roast. Do you need more Dr. Peppers for work? I can pick them up when I go and get the kids. You sure? Speak now or forever hold your peace. Love you, too... Wait, did you already by the pharmacy? I told you too. huh... I'll do it. Whatever. Yeah, hugs and kisses, blah-blah. Bye."
The phone rang again.
"Hello? This is she. What did he do? Yeah. Did you give him timeout? Who did he...," she turned the peas and shitronni off, and moved the pot to a cold stove eye. It burned her hand. "Shit... shit, shit... No, no, no. Sorry, i burnt myself. Sorry. I'll come, yeah. I'm on my way."
For a moment, though, she had to pause. She ran her hand under cold water, flexing her fingers.She looked into the living room, at a picture that hung on the wall. It was an easter picture, with the family standing in front of the church, the three kids in their tiny little ties and shoes, the blond one smiling a toothless grin, the freckles krinkling over his little nose. He was holding on to a blue basket, dotted with eggs. He was standing on his tippie-toes so he would be the same height as his five year old brothers. She almost thought about taking it off the wall.
It wasn't a long way to the day care. About five minutes or more. It was situated by a small church, on a hill. She pulled the car into the drive, and it made a horrible grating sound, and she had to force the gear into its slot. She sighed as she looked at the building. She opened the door, and it felt like it was jammed. As her body neared the door, a daycare worker walked up to the fence, a blond headed boy embraced against her chest. She nearly slammed Zachary into my mother. She walked away, without a word. Zachary struggled, making vulgar noises as he was forced into the car. She tolerated his hair pulling, at least until she got him buckled. As she drove, he sat in the backseat, groaning and yelling, and trying to wiggle out of his carseat.
She could barely see through her tear stained eyes. She pulled onto a patch of grass. She turned her reddening face to him, and his head was pointed at the ground.
"Zachary! Why... why do you do this?huh? can you tell me?... can you tell me? Look at me. Look at me!" Her voice got harsh. Slowly, he looked at her. She looked into his eyes, and she went quiet. She just looked at him, looked at him as he stared at her, looked at him, and cried.
He grew into adolescence. I remember it, because i grew with him.I remeber the fights we had, the things he did and said. Horrible. Frightening at times. And, most of them, he meant. A few months ago, he got shot. I don't know why, because mom and Zachary's dad divorced several years ago. But I remember what mama told me about him.
"I know why the world is so fucked up...because children are allowed to hurt, Jake. They suffer, and suffer, and hurt... and they don't even deserve it... Not like we do... not yet."