The darkness under the bed felt strangely familiar.
*** lay there without moving.
Dust clung to the wooden slats above him. The faint smell of old wood and fabric surrounded him. The floor was cold against his cheek.
For a moment his breathing slowed.
His eyes stared into the narrow strip of darkness beneath the bedframe.
Then something shifted inside his mind.
Memories rarely arrive politely.
They break in.
Quietly.
Slowly.
Like fog filling a room.
And suddenly *** was not under the bed anymore.
He was somewhere else.
The room was much brighter.
Walls painted with childish colors.
Small plastic chairs.
Drawings taped everywhere.
A kindergarten classroom.
In the far corner of the room sat a small boy.
Cri.
He was very small then.
His legs folded under him as he sat on the floor, a sheet of paper resting on the little table in front of him.
In his hand he held a crayon.
Blue.
He moved it slowly across the page, drawing something carefully. The lines were simple, uncertain, but he focused on them with the seriousness only children have.
Every now and then he paused.
Not because he was finished.
But because he heard something.
Laughter.
Other children playing.
He lifted his head slightly.
Across the room, groups of kids sat together.
Talking.
Sharing toys.
Showing each other drawings.
Their voices were light.
Carefree.
Cri watched them quietly.
Then he lowered his head again.
The crayon touched the paper once more.
But as he drew, another sound appeared in his mind.
A voice.
Angry.
Loud.
"YOU'RE A PIECE OF SHIT!"
The words slammed into his memory.
Cri's hand stopped moving.
The classroom around him remained cheerful and bright.
But the voice inside his head continued.
"EVER SINCE YOU WERE BORN THERE'S BEEN NOTHING GOOD IN MY LIFE!"
Another memory.
Another shout.
"YOU'RE A DISGRACE TO THIS FAMILY!"
Cri stared at the paper.
The crayon rested against the drawing, unmoving.
His small fingers tightened slightly around it.
For a moment he glanced up again.
The other children were still playing.
Still laughing.
Still talking with each other.
Friends.
Cri looked at them for a few seconds.
Then slowly lowered his eyes again.
His thoughts moved in the quiet, simple way children think.
I could never be friends with anyone.
The idea felt obvious.
Logical.
Like realizing that the sky is blue.
His hand started moving again.
The crayon continued its slow path across the page.
Lines.
Shapes.
Something that might become a house.
Or maybe a person.
He didn't know yet.
He just kept drawing.
A pair of footsteps approached.
Cri didn't notice until a shadow appeared over the paper.
A woman's voice spoke gently.
"Hey there."
Cri looked up.
His teacher crouched beside him.
She smiled warmly.
"That's a nice drawing."
Cri didn't answer.
The teacher waited.
When the silence stretched too long, she stood up again.
"Come on," she said softly.
She reached out and lightly guided him by the shoulder.
"Let's go sit with the others."
Cri didn't resist.
But he didn't help either.
He simply allowed himself to be moved.
The teacher brought him to a small group of children sitting around a table.
"Everyone," she said cheerfully, "this is Cri. Why don't you show him what you're drawing?"
Three children looked at him.
They waited.
One boy lifted his paper.
"Look! I made a dinosaur!"
Cri looked at the drawing.
Then looked back at the table.
Another child tried.
"What are you drawing?"
Silence.
Cri didn't respond.
The children glanced at each other.
A third one spoke.
"Do you want to play with us?"
Cri stared at the surface of the table.
The seconds passed.
The silence grew uncomfortable.
One of the kids frowned.
"Why doesn't he talk?"
Another child's lip started trembling.
"He's weird…"
The boy who drew the dinosaur pushed his chair back slightly.
"I don't understand him."
A small girl suddenly began to cry.
"I don't like him…"
The teacher looked surprised.
She quickly knelt beside them again.
"It's okay, it's okay."
But the moment had already broken.
The children moved away from the table.
One by one.
Leaving Cri sitting there.
Alone again.
The teacher looked confused.
Concerned.
But Cri didn't react.
He simply stood up quietly.
Walked back to the corner.
Sat down on the floor.
Picked up his crayon.
For a moment he stared at the paper.
Then he thought something.
A small, quiet thought.
I knew it.
His hand moved slowly again.
I knew I was awful.
The blue crayon continued across the page.
I just want to die alone.
The classroom remained full of color.
Full of noise.
Full of life.
But in the corner, a small boy kept drawing quietly.
Under the bed, ***'s eyes opened again.
The memory faded slowly.
But the feeling remained.
Like a stain that never fully disappears.