child screaming - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The scream was primal. It had a raw intensity to it that told of urgency, of desperate need. Human brains didn't evolve in environments where there was the safety of walls, cribs and cuddly toys. All that kid knew was that Momma was nowhere close and he was as scared as an adult would be in the forest at night.
The child's scream came from a place or terror, telling of a mind lost in absolute fear. Were she an adult there would have been immediate concern, empathy, perhaps the help of a counsellor - not for Jade. She was eighteen months and everyone said attention would "spoil her."
Toby screamed like his body was rebelling against his existence - as if he'd arrived in a world that made no sense at all. His skin craved cuddles; his mind craved the rocking sensation of being carried by his mother. The outcome was the same as every other time, a shout, then ignored - his training to be an "easy child" had begun.
The scream was pain put into the air, writ large for anyone who cared to help end it. In the end what she got was a spank, sending her mind into a spasm of desperation until the inevitable shut down response.
If the child's scream was ever answered I never heard it. In the daytime his mother walked him from their apartment to daycare and back, then at night it was always the same. I could just see his face, red and wet with tears, terror in his eyes, crying himself into he oblivion of sleep. That's what passes as loving child care these days, better than sticks and beatings, but not much.
It didn't even sound like she was pausing long enough to breathe. Surely she'd have to either stop or pass out soon. But the screaming went on so I looked up from my book to see what was going on. She must have been at least five, beet red in the face, streaming tears, banging her fists into some guy, her Dad I guess. She must do it a lot. He had this resigned look about him. Eventually he picked her up and carried her aloft on his shoulders still flailing and screaming. Once she was gone I could hear the smooth jazz of the coffee shop again and somewhat ruffled I returned to my book.
I'd rather suck concrete through a straw than listen to my kid brother scream. It's so high pitch I think my ears are going to rupture. It's got to be natures way of enabling kids to inflict enough torture on their elders to get whatever they want. Well, it's not going to work on me, he's not my kid and I'm going out.