November, 1995:
A one year old child sits in his first car. Molded from plastic, dyed red and yellow, he plunked himself inside; closing the small, banana-shaped door. He loosely grips the wheel, the circumference as large as his miniature head covered in blond peach fuzz. . He stares, as if hypnotized by the camera lens pointed towards him, positioned perfectly for the photo like a doll. The exception being the non-existent, cheesy grin usually plastered on a child’s face. His small countenance was dull, unfeeling.
Had a child so small and blissfully ignorant foreseen his tumulus future right at the moment the camera snapped, capturing his devoid expression forever? Could a child’s mind recall its own forming from a drug-addicted mother that lay complacent with her life manipulated by methamphetamines ? Could an infant so innocent of the world and its evils possibly know the difference between right and wrong in his family already?

By the somber look on such a young child’s face, yes. He could.
********
December, 1995:
A snapshot of the next few years of his life: Thrown against a wall, holding in the tears--crying would only show his true fragility--screaming to his older sister to run, run, run, kicked, picked up, tossed callously, as if he was the dirt beneath his whore mother’s feet, beaten, bludgeoned, starved. A concerned neighbor nearby pounds in the three numbers of justice--911. She suspects drug abuse in the house across the street with the sweet, little blond boy named Richard, after his revolting father. The father that beats him so severely, so mercilessly.
Red, and blue lights swirl around the top of the black and white cruiser reporting to the would-be murder scene. . The policeman trudges to the door and knocks. Once. Twice. Thrice. Finally, a sizable, grimy, bald man grudgingly answers the door, immediately denying the various accusations the officer fires at him. Glancing down, ready to leave, the officer notices a smear of blood and politely suggests he come in. Little Richard lay bloody and near death against a wall, unconscious. His mother had ran as soon as sirens came screaming down their street.
********
September, 2004:
A doll-sized girl sits next to him, new to Trajan elementary school class. He wonders what her name is. She’s so cute, he thinks, glancing over at her, his sky-blue eyes electrified with excitement. The girl, so reserved and timid, stares at her paper and writes her name, not knowing what else to do. Richard peeks at her paper to see her name; Callie. It fits her, he says to himself, a cute name for a cute girl. He started to like her, having no idea how she would haunt him over the next few years of his life.
********
December, 2006
Richard sits somber in his new, middle school math class. The red-headed teacher squawked on about procedures and what materials they needed for class. God, would she shut up? She finally stopped, only to torture the middle-schoolers more with self introductions. Richard stared at a wall, half-listening to one after another drone on about how they liked music and hanging out with their friends. All of them the same. Finally the girl next to him stood up. He glanced at her and saw her visibly shaking while she spoke. She liked writing and reading, she practically whispered it. Her long, wavy, blond hair almost reached her waist. Her voice sounded familiar. Richard’s ears perked up as she finished her last sentence, “Oh, um, sorry, I forgot my name. Wow, ha, sorry. It’s Callie. So, yeah. That’s all,” she stammered. It was her, it was the small, timid beauty that sat next to him in elementary school. Richard stared at her back, and smiled.
********
October, 2008:
  He stands, a too-tall freshman, slouched in front of the dropped background of grey bricks. His arms crossed and folded just so, as instructed. He glances at the camera, itching to move.
“Smile!” demands the camera woman, tired of taking pictures of cranky teenagers. No smile fleets across his face as the woman snaps the camera too many times. He stares blandly bored at the annoyingly chipper photographer waiting until she gives him the okay to leave. Why was he still even here. There’s nothing here for him. He’d rather be dead. If only one person would care…just once. Just once did he want to be loved. A flash of the young girl who sat next to him in sixth and seventh grade fleeted in his mind. Callie. She had moved to a different middle school. He wonders if he’d ever see that smile of hers again. White teeth against pale skin and pink lips, wide as could be, goofy and genuine. He missed that smile. The photographer screeched “Next,”  and Richard strolled away, his massive hands clenched in his pockets.
********
November, 2009:
Ice slicks the roads after a weekend game of hunting. Jack, Richard’s best friend, and his grandfather drive home looking forward to the warmth of home to escape the dreadful, battering rain. The vehicle swerves on a turn, the tires skid while the grandfather shoves on the brakes, desperate for control over the car. Fear and sweat trickle down their backs while tears fill their eyes and screams burrow into their throats. Terrified, they pray to God, but it’s too late. The car careens into a tree, wrapping around it like a sickening metal ring, sealing their fates. A frantic 911 call is made ; an ambulance’s siren is heard from afar. The medics extract the two men from the truck, Jack already being dead is gently laid to rest in a plastic bag of black while his grandfather, in critical condition, is loaded into the back of the ambulance and rushed to the hospital. Monday, Richard receives the news at school, calmly walks outside and slips down the wall, yanking at his hair while the sobs trapped in his chest escape his mouth. It was  his fault. The very day Jack died, he wanted to come over but Richard had been too busy. The last fragment of hope Richard had kept in his heart shattered, his faith in everything lost. His happiness, he felt, was impossible.
********
August, 2009:
Nearly a foot over everyone he leans against the brick wall, his face stoic, but his stomach is twisted with anxiety and excitement. He heard that Callie was going to this high school. Hope blossomed in his hollow heart. Maybe she could be his happiness. His friends surround him in an almost cult-like circle chatting about the new game just released and what classes they have that year. His eyes scan the clusters of crowds, searching for her. Her memory, her image had been seared into his mind since the sixth grade. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he sees her weaving through the crowds, carrying books, her eyes to the ground. Automatically his eyes lock on her small figure, following her until she disappears around a corner. She was even more beautiful now and she would be his. He was determined.
********
October, 2010:
Next Wednesday is their one year anniversary, and he can’t believe it. His horrible, hollow life and empty heart had finally been filled by this miniature girl. She gave him hope. Happiness. Something to live for.  She’s his, and he’s hers. Joy engulfs his towering body as he snakes his arms around her body. He smiles, kissing her head and squeezing her close. His precious little angel. She’s forever mine, he thinks as he lifts her off her tiny toes and swings her around, making her fly.