The Wounded Child | Teen Ink

The Wounded Child

November 26, 2015
By Whisper119 SILVER, Denver, Colorado
Whisper119 SILVER, Denver, Colorado
7 articles 4 photos 2 comments

The man is completely covered in dark blue with exception to the occasional gold dots on his costume. The woman wears a gold crown one not fitting a queen but perhaps a princess; but, she bows her head down in shame as that of a peasant. Her dress is pink and the sleeves hang low revealing her smooth chest, and all but the nipple of her left bosom is exposed. But she does not care. Her son is dead and yet she has no tears. She rests her nose on his bandaged head and bows her head before god. She asks why this happened. Why her son had to die.  Deep down she knows why. She never loved her husband and she doesn’t know if the child even belonged to him. She knows that her son was taken from her because of her sinful actions; because of her lusty ways. So no, she doesn’t care that her breast hangs out or that her ankles show.
His hair is red like fire and burns as his eyes glaze over and he stares at his dead son. He had orchestrated the entire show. ‘We knew it inside and out, inside and out’ her repeats over and over in his mind. ‘Inside and out, inside and out. We practiced every-this shouldn’t have. There shouldn’t have been-there was no.’ His mind is restless and new thoughts come in at every moment, but the scene, the awful seen of his son falling plays out in front of his eyes. He knows he should hug his wife and rap his arms around her. But he hasn’t. He’s been in the same crouched position with his arms between his legs for several minutes. It’s like his arms are not responding as if they have developed a mind of their own. They act cowardly and refuse to embrace his wife.
The barrel she is sitting on is uncomfortable and wreaks of something dead. Or is that her son? She kisses his head several times as if they will heal the wounds. She’s done praying but is keeping her head low and her eyes shut. Every so often she thinks she’s felt him move but remembers that he is dead. She remembers that she let him perform. She remembers that she is the reason he is dead.
He’s not quite sure what to do. The guilt is clawing at his stomach and is crawling up to his throat. He still hasn’t moved but he guesses he’ll just stay there. Wait and see what his beautiful wife will do.
He blends in with the dark light and takes his blue self to the darkness and the sea of regret. But she’ll come with him with her dark blue cape and its gold spots. And her son will be left with his pale cold skin.


The author's comments:

This is a poem describing what the figures in the painting La Famille Du Saltimbanque L'Enfant Blesse by Gustave Doré may have been thinking.


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