Open Scars

There was something in that boy’s gaze that transcended his small stature.

 His presence, though it seemed invisible to others, carried the weight of ancestral pain, of open wounds and scars that time would never heal. 

He moved through the world as if carrying the burden of a universe that did not belong to him but was imposed upon him from birth.

 Loneliness was his only constant companion, the shadow that followed him into every corner, every inattentive gaze that crossed him without ever truly seeing him. 

Growing up in a home where love was measured and divided as if it were a scarce resource cruelly shaped his soul. The mother, who should have been a pillar of comfort and affection, was more of a torment than a refuge. 

Ruthless in her words and relentless in her gestures, she divided the children as one separates wheat from chaff, always giving the little affection she had to the older brother.

 To him, all the attention, all the scraps of affection she could extract from her hardened heart.

 To the boy, only silence and indifference remained. 

This division was not only in daily life; it was felt in the skin, in the soul, a mark that isolated him, making him question his worth at every moment. The nights were even heavier than the days. 

The silence of the house was not one of rest but of tension. He lay down, but sleep did not come easily. The darkness brought with it the bitter memories of muffled screams, cold glances, the absence of any touch of tenderness. 

And in the midst of this darkness, the mother’s shadows appeared like a cruel ghost, reliving moments of cruelty where her heavy hand and harsh words marked him more deeply than any physical wound. Sleep, when it came, was filled with nightmares—not imaginary monsters, but the real terrors of a life without love, without warmth. 

But there was an even greater hole in his chest, an emptiness that the absence of a father figure dug into daily. The father, this shadow who should have been the hero of childhood, was just a vague memory, an unfulfilled desire. The boy longed for an embrace that never came, for words of encouragement that were never spoken. 

He watched other boys run into their fathers’ arms, receiving caresses and proud smiles, while he struggled with the absence, with the yearning for something he had never experienced. 

This lack shaped his character as if he were always searching for a piece of himself that had been stolen before he even had the chance to know it. It was a pain without a name, a longing that throbbed in every beat of his heart.

And to make the already unbearable weight of his childhood worse, there was the harsh reality of a world that saw him differently because of the color of his skin. 

It wasn’t necessary for anyone to say anything.

 The averted glances, the hushed whispers, the maintained distances spoke louder than any insult directly uttered. He felt like an intruder in his own life, as if simply existing were an affront to what others considered normal. 

Racism was not explicit but was there, in the subtext, in the small daily interactions that, one by one, isolated him more than any word could. The boy walked among others as if made of air, invisible but bearing the weight of a world on his shoulders. His color, his face, everything about him seemed to condemn him to a destiny of always being "the other," present but never truly accepted. The older brother, once his playmate, now looked at him with disdain. 

Having received everything he never had, the brother devalued his efforts, his small achievements. As if his mere attempts were an affront to the pedestal he had been placed on. The boy felt this deeply, feeling the separation not only physically but emotionally, that the mother had cultivated between them. 

The unjust, cruel division of affections made him question his own worth. If his mother and brother saw him as less, who else in the world could see him as worthy? This thought was a prison from which he seemed unable to escape. Yet, despite everything, he walked on. His eyes, though brimming with unshed tears, looked towards the horizon with a strange firmness. 

There was a sun in them, a glimmer of someone who, despite being pushed down by life, did not allow himself to be completely extinguished. But even this sun, reflected in the waters of a sad lagoon, did not warm enough to drive away the constant cold that tightened his chest. 

With each passing day, the feeling of facing everything alone became more unbearable. He knew that no matter how hard he tried, he could never erase the hurt that consumed him, the feeling of abandonment that pursued him like a shadow that never disappeared, even in daylight. 

 

The boy dreamed of better days, but the past held him back, rooting him in suffering. The memories of the merciless mother and the absence of the father were chains that bound him to a time he couldn’t leave behind. 

The unjust division of affection eroded his self-esteem, making him feel like someone who did not deserve the love he longed for. But somewhere within him, there was a flame that did not go out. Perhaps this was his greatest victory: the ability to, even surrounded by darkness, keep a small light burning. 

He knew the road would be long, that scars would not disappear easily, but he also knew that he had survived until now.

 

And simply being still standing, still having the strength to continue, was proof of his inner strength. This boy, with all his pain and scars, was more than the suffering he carried. He was the embodiment of resilience, of the ability to overcome the worst obstacles and still continue to fight. 

No matter how the world pushed him down, he would find a way to rise.

 And when he did, he would be stronger, more complete, knowing that he had survived not only abandonment and cruelty but also the loneliness of a life that had so often left him on the margins.