Only the Children Cry_Samantha Minshall
“Little girl, why are you crying?”
Over and over he repeated the question, senselessly plying her to attempt to console the sobbing child. Running a hand through his locks of silken hair and glancing down at his watch, the man squinted through the sunlight reflecting off its golden band, struggling to determine the time. Looking back at the gasping girl, not even a hint of sympathy flickered in his cerulean irises. The man’s mind could comprehend what was right before his very eyes, small and fragile, her narrowly contoured face was red and blotchy. The weight of the world was pressing on this miniscule being’s narrow shoulders. No one should look that beaten down by life so young. A shockingly vibrant shade of green framed the glistening pupils of this girl, extremely conspicuous against the bloodshot veins snaking through the white space. Impatiently, the man straightened his suit without looking at the figure in front of him. Gaze wandering, he sighed heavily, looked both ways, and left her. As he walked away, she sighed.
Alone in the darkness, the child glanced at the graffitied walls, scribbled with words she could not understand. Rancid scents permeated the narrow space, rank and of mysterious origins. She began to blindly walk away from this hopeless place, drying her tear-soaked visage with trembling fingers. After a short while, she happened upon another alleyway, this one just as decimated as the last. Lifting her delicate nose in the air, her mouth began to water as the, scent of bacon grease filled the air. Glancing around, she stepped up to a door, thinking with her stomach again and not her brain.
Pushing open the heavy steel door a shock wave of sound almost knocked her to the floor. A bass beat pulsated through the walls, yet no one inside seemed to be bothered.Her nose crinkled as not only grease, but also stale beer and menthol filled the air. Suddenly, a broad shouldered woman, her bear-like hands brandishing a bottle of vodka in each fist approached; her gaze flitting about the room, she did not make eye contact with the girl, yet spoke to her.
“You there, why ya’ so sad? What’s with the cryin’?”
Again the child said nothing, clearly this woman was unconcerned by her, yet again she said; “What’s with the cryin’? I ain’t got all day.”
Frustrated, the girl walked out, the waterworks starting up again. She ran far away, blindly seeking something, anything, anybody.She found herself in a small park. Vision cloudy, she threw herself on the ground, knees curled to her chest.
“Why are you crying?”
Startled, she looked up into the face of a boy about her age. His face was dimpled with freckles, and he looked wildly at her, flabbergasted. Handing her a little stuffed bear, worn with age, he sat down next to her and said nothing else. He simply began to cry.
We have forgotten how to weep, and it is only the children who cry.
