Fragments, 2

A journal entry from years ago, my son is 12 now.

His room had some paper on the floor around his study area. He was cutting words for an assignment, some first grade sight words for sorting. Somehow the words ended up on the floor. He had a small desk so maybe they fell off when he moved to get something from his backpack. Or, they might have fallen down without him knowing when he decided to move into the kitchen because of better lighting there. He probably didn’t realize the pieces of paper on the floor. Even if he did, he probably didn’t think it would be a problem.

He was wrong. I saw it in how he stood, his staring without blinking as his dad yelled at him for not picking up the pieces. It wasn’t just the small rectangular pieces of paper on the floor, there was also a notebook, a handout or two and some other school supplies. 

My son stood unable to move. He refrained from answering his dad’s loud questions, they were too loud even for me from where I stood watching through the archway from the kitchen.

It was not the kind of yelling for attention, the kind where it is just a raised voice. It was the kind that had no control. Red faced, heaving chest, and hands ready to rip someone’s head off.