Through Your Eyes

Chapter One

Bailey

The only thing that keeps me going is the hope that I can one day save him. Save him from the hell he is living. The hell with backhanding, beer bottles, knuckles. The hell that he hides with clothes and his mother's makeup at school. The hell that no one should have to live.

The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of finding him in my school, the school I know he goes to, just to help him. 

That's why, when the teacher played  Alyssa Lies in my English class, I stared at my desk and let the tears run down my cheeks.

My little girl met a new friend
Just the other day
On the playground at school
Between the tires and the swings

But she came home with tear-filled eyes
And she said to me, "Daddy, Alyssa lies."
Well I just brushed it off at first
'Cause I didn't know how much my little girl had been hurt
Or the things she had seen
I wasn't ready when I said, "You can tell me."
And she said
Alyssa lies to the classroom
Alyssa lies every day at school
Alyssa lies to the teachers
As she tries to cover every bruise

The boy in front of me had his hands over his ears, but his brow was furrowed, giving away that he could still hear the song. I kept my head down but kept glancing up through my lashes to make sure he was okay. He didn't change position.

When the last line of the song ended, the boy got up and walked out of the classroom quickly, his face hidden behind his hand. His other hand was matted in his walnut-colored hair. Following his example, the quiet girls from the back of the classroom sprinted out. Without sparring a second, the teacher fell in line behind the last girl.

The rest of the class sat in silence and waited for the soft sniffles and incoherent voices to stop. No one said a word as we read the last part of the video:

After playing "Alyssa Lies", several students came forward and reported domestic abuse. One girl was removed from her situation, the others found help...

Let's end child abuse now.

When the video clicks, showing it's over, the quarterback on our school's football team takes the tape out and places it on the top of the TV before resuming sitting in silence with the rest of us.

That is what happened today through my eyes. Through the eyes of my soulmate is only slightly different.

Samuel

The only thing I can hope for is that my soulmate can't see my father every day. But I know she does. My abuse isn't a direct way of finding me.

My English teacher played a song about abuse in class. I was the first to run out after the song. Many trailed behind me.

"Sam, please tell me what your home life is like," the teacher begged. 

"Beer bottles, back-handed slaps, makeup, long sleeves and pants, knuckles," I respond, my voice just loud enough for him to hear.

"Who does this?"

"My father," was all I responded before bolting down the hall and into the bathroom.

I sat on the toilet seat and let silent tears run through my fingers, continuously kicking myself in the shin, right on the bruise from that morning, just to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. But I knew I wasn't. It never was, and never will be, fake.