Child Abuse and Neglect alexiz acosta

Short Story: The Hurting
It was the third week and the little boy still used the same torn up clothes he's worn for the past two school years, he was only 8yrs old. Same smell, same droopy eyes, and same beat up body. The first school year, the school administrators assumed he just didn't like showering, and his family came from a low income background which is why they couldn't afford to get him new clothes; until there were marks. Day after day, hurting after hurting, the little boy never spoke a word. He always got straight A's in all his tests, yet never participated in class. He was quiet. The second school year, they tried to get him to speak, say something, tell his story about his life at home- nothing. The dean at the school decided to finally report him to the social services after seeing two black eyes and cigarette marks on his arm and neck. As soon as the case was reported the police and social workers immediately reported to his house, and for once, the little boy spoke. 'please don't tell my mom' he pleaded, 'she'll only making the hitting worse, please'. The cry of his fear made the case only more severe, and they proceeded with going to his home. As soon as they arrived, they seen the mess of a 'shelter' he lived in. Where was his room? There was no sight of it. The house was of one room, which was occupied by his alcoholic mother and drug addict dad. As the inspection continued, they went into the den which had a raggedy pillow and ripped up blanket along with a teddy bear at its darkest corner. It's where he slept. Soon after discovering his living conditions, he was taken into a shelter where he was provided with warmth, clothes, and better yet, a foster family.
diary entry

second day of school

Dear diary,

What is love really? I’m convinced I wasn’t put in this world for loving. I’ve never been loved. Not by my parents, or grandparents, or sisters. The only love I’ve witnessed is the kind of love my parents have every time they’re drunk and he hit’s her, saying it was “out of love”. Is that really what love is? Because that’s the only one I know. If it is, dang. I hope to never fall in love… Yet again my dad tells me the same thing when he hits me or burns me with his cigarette and it’s time to go to school, but he doesn't want me to tell anyone about his abusive self-destructive temper that has lead me to near death about 5 times my whole life. I’ve never told anyone about the way he treats me, not even my sisters who live under the same roof as me. When my dad hits or abuses me, they’re never there to see. I have my own room so they don’t know about the hard hits he gives me, or the burning sensation of his cigar resting on my back. To me, that’s love; and until I’ve been shown different, I know that this is what love is.

Intro Paragraph:

Do you know what it’s like to wonder if you’re going to have a decent meal all day today? To wonder if you’ll get of sip of water this week? To wonder when you’re scars will heal? Most children who suffer from child abuse wonder this every day, and wonder how much longer their poor bodies can take. The answer? Not much. If these children don’t find and open doorway out, they’ll stay living their worst nightmare everyday until death puts them out of their worst misery. Fortunately, death isn’t the only way out. We as human beings have the possibility to help change their fate. The first step is to bring awareness of their mistreatment such as starvation, physical abuse, and mental abuse.

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