catriona
@marchand
c2 seviye reading slump
his dad worked at the harbor, sometimes the men he worked with came to the house and sat in the kitchen. they were often drunk and always angry—at their bosses and the politicians and the economy. but late one evening when his lips were lubricated with beer, his dad had slurred: "you know, sometimes i wonder what i did wrong. if it's my fault that the boy is like he is." the other men all told him it wasn't his fault. they all agreed that there was something wrong with the boy, of course, they just objected to the part about who was to blame.
it was a small apartment with thin walls, the artist had been sitting on the other side, knowing that it would have been better if he didn't exist at all.
it's hard to say "i love you" when you're fourteen years old. and completely impossible to dare to whisper: "don't hurt yourself, because you'd be hurting me too."
adults often think that self-confidence is something a child learns, but little kids are by their nature always invincible, it's poor self-confidence that needs to be taught.
the artist needed their laughter too, perhaps more than anyone understood, he had laughed less and less that spring, and hardly drawn anything at all. but he tried to draw that day, he really, really tried, because he hated disappointing joar. sometimes when the artist got nervous his skin itched, and sometimes one of his shoulders started to twitch, sort of bouncing up and down beneath his t-shirt, and often he felt so ashamed of it that he cried. there was something wrong with him, he knew that, his brain absorbed information in the wrong order. he had never wanted to play with other children when he was little, he had just wanted to sit alone in a corner drawing, his parents were often told their child wasn't normal. they believed that, sadly, which is why they missed out on the incredible joy of having a child who was special.