“YOU’RE NOT REAL” I screamed even as my knees buckled and I collapsed fingers gripping at the sides of my head as though I could make it all stop if only I could break through the fragile casing of my skull and force my finger tips deep into the softness of grey matter trapped within.
I cried then in the way that only children seem to be able to, I cried as I have never cried since that day with heart breaking sobs that made my chest ache even days later.
Days that I do not remember.
I know I stayed there for what felt like a life time, my body crumpled against the unforgiving wooden panelled floor shaking with each new sob that tore at my throat until I was sure that I might soon see blood as well as tears staining the fabric of my little blue jeans.
There were hands then, though I never saw them.
Large and rough with years of labour, they smelled of cigarettes and potting soil… saw dust and engine grease.
Those hands came and closed slowly over mine easing away the pressure of my tiny fingers now tipped with blood where my nails had partly broken the skin leaving red streaks through the tangled mess of sun bleached strands.
Strong arms lifted my body that felt too small… too fragile, like a hollow egg shell that has been pitted against a brick.
That was how I felt then just a shell trying to keep the world at bay.
I remember the dull sensation of eyes staring, burning into me as those strong arms cradled my shell the blur of red against the grey shirt that covered the chest that felt more like a mountain… a fortress that could hide me from the world.
There was no other sound to me then but the footsteps of my human fortress carrying my shell of a body out of the room as my pained sobs cut through the air and buried themselves deep in the psyche of every being there.
I knew somewhere in the back of my catatonic mind that I would never see that room again or the other children and their frightened glances that were always cast in my direction whenever I was caught speaking softly to the man that paced the halls of our Sunday school.
I would never see the haggard face of our tired teacher, the horrible accusing look he always gave me when I insisted on the pacing mans existence before being sent to stand alone in the farthest corner of our class room.
We passed through the narrow doorway where above there hung a sign.
Fat sprawling letters written in a child’s hand so thickly coated in a smattering of different colored glitters… Jesus loves you.
I closed my eyes.