Friday Flash: A Troubled Child by Cheryl Clarke

"I just don't know what else to do with him," Mya said to her mother, exhausted from lack of sleep and frustrated from lack of options.

"Oh, come on, Mya," her mother said somewhat patronizingly before taking a sip of her tea. "He's not that bad. There are many other children who are far worse."

Mya wasn't so sure of that. Her first child, Emily, was a dream. A happy baby, who was always smiling, she captured the hearts of her parents the minute she was born. She slept through the night at three months old and as a toddler, she eagerly followed directions from just about anyone. Her daughter was the kind of child that solicited compliments from other parents. They would marvel at how well behaved and polite she was. Emily's teachers consistently praised her for her participation in class and unwavering willingness to help her classmates.

Eli, on the other hand, was a menace. He was a colicky, angry little baby, who never slept for more than 25 minutes at a time for the first year of his life. He lashed out at everyone and everything, the hitting and biting phase dragging on forever. A smile was a rare occurence, while misery remained his constant companion. When Eli turned 5, his parents began working with a therapist to address his behavioral issues but seemed to be gaining little traction.

"Mom, I know that a parent is supposed to love their child regardless, and don't get me wrong, I do love Eli, I just don't know how much I like him. Am I terrible mother? Did I do something wrong?" Mya dropped her head into her hands, the weight of it feeling almost unbearable. Tears began to pool in her eyes, and her lip started to quiver. Her strength was waning and the open admission of her feelings toward her second born filled her with shame and sadness.

Although her mother did her best to comfort her, it was useless. Mya finished her cup of tea and left the visit with her mother burdened by the feeling of failure.

'Why couldn't Eli be more like Emily,' she wondered, as the guilt continued to gnaw at her on the drive home. If there were ever two children more diametrically opposed, it was these two. How were they even from the same gene pool?

Mya pulled into the driveway, hoping her husband had managed to do something enjoyable with the kids that afternoon—maybe a trip to the park or a visit to the library. She’d even have forgiven him if he'd broken her no-sugar rule and taken them for ice cream.

As she walked up the front path, Mya noticed the door was slightly ajar. Stepping inside, she was met with the unsettling sight of clumps of hair scattered across the foyer floor. There was red marker all over the walls and the house was eerily quiet.

"Hello?" she called out. No answer. Mia peered up toward the bedrooms. The marker streaked along the walls leading to Eli's room. As she ran her fingers over the slimy trail, she realized it wasn't ink—the sticky red residue was blood. A rush of panic flooded Mia's veins. Opening the bedroom door, her eyes landed on two small, bare feet, stained red and protruding from beneath the bed. Next to them stood Emily, her crimson-stained hand clenched tightly around a pair of blood-soaked scissors...