Dixie
When you really think of the meaning of the word "childhood", happiness, love, tenderness and playfulness comes to mind. But when you think of my childhood, the only words that come to mind are trauma, pain and abuse.
It's not a good thing, nor should it be a remotely acceptable thing but it's my life and I have no choice but to live with it. Most people would wonder why a seven year old has so many thoughts and why her thoughts are so developed. The only answer is that I was forced to grow up early. Sucks, I know but there's not much I can do about it.
"Dixie," I heard my mom shout, and I know this can't be good. She's using her "I'm about to ruin your confidence" voice and that's scary enough to make me shiver.
I ran down the stairs speedily and stood before her. She was dressed in her robe, while rubbing her stomach. She's currently pregnant with my little sister. I'm not sure why she keeps having children with my father even though she claims that he's the worst man on the planet.
Her reasoning for him being the worst, is a lot different from mine. But no one would ever believe me, no one would ever dream to think he's anything short of the perfect father, so I just take the abuse and keep my mouth shut.
"Yes mommy?"
"Why are you dressed like that?" She asked, a scowl present on her face.
I looked at her confused. I had on a pink dress and green leggings. What else was I to wear? "Like what?"
"Like an idiot," she shouted, "go change."
A permanent pout came on my face and I felt my tears welling in my eyelids. Sometimes, I think my mom forgets that I'm just seven years old. She forgets that I'm just a kid and it's sad but I have to live with it.
I ran from infront of her and collapsed on my bed. The screams were muffled by the pillows and that's when I heard my door creak. I jumped.
I ran into the bathroom, climbing onto the toilet to get to the sink.
"Dixie, honey," I heard a sweet voice say. "Where are you?" It's aunty Lauren.
Lauren James. She's the only person in this world, aside from my grandma who I think actually likes me. She's been my babysitter for a better part of the last seven years. My parents say she's been here from the birth of my oldest sister so that's a lot of years.
I heard her footsteps get closer to the bathroom door, until she opened it. "Are you okay?" She asked, stretching out to help me in the sink.
"Yes."
She chuckled. "Even with tears down your face, you're always okay." She sighed. "What happened?"
"Mommy told me I'm dressed like an idiot," I said.
She sighed and pulled me in for a hug. Normally, I'd flinch at the slightest touch of anyone, but not her. She's the sweetest, kindest and most gentle human being I've ever been around. I wish she was my mother.
"I think you're the prettiest seven year old I've ever met. You don't look like an idiot," she reassured, "the colours just clash."
"What does clash mean?" I asked, with a nervous giggle.
"It means that they don't go together. Don't worry about it. I'll get you all changed and into a brand new outfit," she spoke, a smile plastered on her face. She used a clean towel to dry my tears and started singing to me until all the sadness I had washed away. I felt better. Thanks to her.
She got me changed into a new polka dot dress and fixed my hair into a bun. "There you go," she said, "later tonight, when everyone's asleep, we can play with your Barbies and I'll teach you how to journal."
I was confused again. I didn't have any Barbies. Mommy said that Barbie's are stupid and father said that he doesn't have time to waste on stupid toys and that I should just focus on school because I need to be smarter than everyone and not stupid like toys.
I also don't know what journal means. I've heard the word many times but I don't know what it means....guess I'll find out later.
"I don't have Barbies."
She got up from the bed and pulled out a box from under the bed. "Now you do." I was happy. She got me a whole box of dolls and combs just like the ones I'd see advertising on TV.
"Thank you," I said, attempting to express my emotions. I can't do that well.
She didn't say anything, but just hugged me in response.
"I wish you were my mother," I whispered. I knew she heard me but I also knew that she wouldn't agree because she didn't want to lose her job with my parents.
"There's something else in the box," she pointed out, "Did you see it?"
I blankly stared at her and dumped everything on the ground. A pink book with a lock and key fell to the floor making a loud noise and I jumped....sigh. I'm afraid of everything.
"Coloring book?" I asked. She nodded in disagreement.
"It's a journal. I want you to write everything. Remember when I taught you to write and make some sentences?"
I nodded. She's always teaching me how to read, write and spell. I can even use my dictionary very well.
She smiled and pulled me up to her lap, grabbing the book. "I want you to write everything in this book and never stop. Always write down the way you feel or the way things make you feel okay? Keep it hidden and safe in our secret spot and whatever you do, don't tell anyone." She spoke very slowly and in hushed tones so I could understand very well and I did.
"I promise," I said and held out my pinky, "pink promise."
"Pinky promise." I love Ms. Lauren and I'll always journal for her.
We heard footsteps approaching my door and she shoved everything under the bed. The last thing any of us needed was my mother or father finding out that Lauren gives me things.
Seconds later, my mother shoved the door open and walked in looking furious. Is she ever happy? "There you are, Lauren," she said in annoyance.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm here." Lauren stood up attentively and made no further sound.
"What were you doing?"
"I was helping Dixie get changed after you called her an idiot for the previous outfit." This was a whole bunch of big words but I could tell everything she said made my mother grow more and more angry.
Mother released a big sigh of regret. "She can help herself. Michelle needs your help with something."
Lauren's body stiffened. "Michelle is eighteen years old. What could she need help with that is more important than helping your seven year old daughter?"
"You do not question my decisions. Leave here and go to help Michele," she said, "now." The doors slammed shut, I sank down the floor crying and I felt so bad that she shouted at Lauren. My life can't possibly get any worse.
Even seven year olds have it hard. But I hope I'm the only one. I hope the other ones are happy and playing at the park because no one deserves this abuse and force of adulthood on them as a child.