The boy was crying. Why he had said it he didn't really know. But what he did know was that his parents might be taken away from him because of what he said. He was told he had said at school that his father beat him. He didn't remember doing so. He was angry at his father sometimes for pulling him away from his baby brother, blocking him from doing what he wanted, forcing him to stay still and listen to those endless talks about his brother. Always his brother. He had felt a lot of anger lately. Bad thoughts ramming inside his head making him feel evil. But it wasn't his fault. He couldn't help it. The bad thoughts weren't his. They just came.
He looked at the drawing that he was told was cause of the stir: A grown-up separating the two fighting kids, and then hitting one of the kids. Had it been like that? Had his father hit him when he separated them? He just recollected being furious for being mistreated and getting the blame for everything. Had he hit his dad? He didn't remember. He hated not to remember. He just recalled what he had felt. His memories when he was angry were without a visual image, like if he had closed his eyes.
The police had come to school to talk with him. They wanted to know what happened. Grownups always wanted to know the visuals. But he didn't have any visuals. He had filled the gaps, as he usually did. Now he was told that what he had said might mean that his parents might be taken away from him.
He cried as he fell asleep in his daddy’s arms.
The dad sat devastated, wounded beyond any healing. Whatever outcome there would always be a scar. The event would never be forgotten.