Heya,

This is for Esmé's contest, which can be found here:

http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/topic30589.html

I don't normally write in a childlike style (or so I think ) but the contest asks for a child's point of view, so that's what I did

Let me know if you feel like this is through the eyes of a child?

XxxDo

I stare down at the toys that lay between my spread legs, trying to block out the sounds that come from downstairs. The shouts, the angry voices, mommy’s sobbing. I don’t want to hear it anymore; I’ve heard it too often already. Mad feelings rush through me. Why don’t they listen? I told them last time that it made me sad and angry, and that I didn't like their fighting. I told them, but they didn't listen, they just shrugged and ignored me. I bite my lip, feeling powerless. They never listen. Them stupid grown-ups, with their stupid fights.

Losing the inspiration to play, I knock over the plastic knights and horses that were lined up in battle formation. A single, angry swipe of my arm and the entire army is defeated. It’s that simple, unlike mommy and daddy’s fighting. Daddy says it’s complicated, and that only grown-ups would understand. I hate it when they say that, especially when he uses the tone. The annoying tone that tells me that I’m nothing more than a little kid. A little kid without a grown-up opinion.

I sigh again, because now I’m in a bad mood. I’d been quite happy, before, just playing with my knights. My legs had been the walls of the city, the plastic knights the undefeatable defenders of the innocent. Well… undefeatable unless I decide to knock them over. I don’t do that often, though, because they’re good knights; they only fight when they have a reason to, when their city is at stake and they have to protect their families. They never ever fight just because they want to. They never ever fight like mommy and daddy do.

I let my gaze travel across the mess of toys in front of me. It would be so much easier if I could just walk downstairs and tell them to stop, and have them actually pay attention. If stopping them would be as easy as knocking over the undefeatable army, then I think mommy, daddy, and me would all be a lot happier.

I almost instantly regret tossing the army onto its side, as it looks rather sad; lying there on the floor, defeated by my power. I sigh again, and lean forward, drawing my legs underneath me, sitting on my knees before the battlefield I just created. I’m sorry, I think, picking up my favorite knight. He wears a white uniform, his long sword drawn and held out before him. He cannot stand by himself, because his legs are molded to fit onto his horse, but I don’t mind that. He belongs with his horse, anyways, because they care about each other. Unlike mommy and daddy, who seem to be meaner and meaner to each other with every day that passes. They always shout, always throw things at each other. They’re always so mean. If that’s what being grow-up is all about, then I never ever want to be old. I’ll just stay a kid forever, like Peter Pan did. Peter Pan is lame, but being a kid forever seems pretty awesome.

I feel sad, and at the same time powerful, because I suddenly realize something. I’m the boss of the boss of the knights, I think, I'm the biggest boss there is. For a moment, I smile, looking down at my knight. A black cross decorates his shield, and I can’t help but feel jealous. Thinking of Peter Pan reminded me of something. Last Halloween I’d asked mommy and daddy to let me be a knight, but they’d said no, and made me dress up the same as my cousins Mickey and Rick. The parents wanted us to be the three musketeers, even though I didn’t want to be one. The musketeers are stupid, knights are much stronger and... gooder.

Being a musketeer is like being Peter Pan, like my neighbour was. It's stupid. I pull my face into a thoughtful expression, pondering. Making up my mind I nod shortly. The musketeers are even stupider than Peter Pan is, and Peter Pan is pretty lame. Except that he’ll be a kid forever, but that’s the only thing that’s cool about him. Other than that; he wears silly clothes, and he looks like a girl. Daddy said he's not manly, so I guess Peter Pan isn't really a boy.

My attention focuses on the knight in my hand. My favourite knight is the strongest one of all, and he’s my friend. I look down at his helmeted head, his tiny brown eyes. I was just angry, angry at mom and dad, I say it to him in my mind. I didn’t mean to knock you over. You’re my friend, you know. I was just mad. In my imagination he nods, raising his sword in salute. He doesn’t get mad at me, ever, because he cares about me. Even when I do something bad, he doesn’t mind because he knows that I didn’t mean it. Unlike mommy and daddy. They always get mad, even when I don't do it on purpose. Like that time I knocked over my glass of milk while I reached for the bread. Daddy got mad, and I didn't even do it purposely.

I reach out with my other hand, lifting his brown horse to its feet. The swipe of my arm that defeated the army was strong enough to separate him from his horse, and I feel even meaner than before. Almost sad, really. I pout, telling him that I’m sorry. Saying it out loud for emphasis. “Sorry, buddy.”

Then I smile as I look closely at the horse, imagining it trotting down green fields, going faster than all the other horses. One of the horses’ legs is lifted off the ground, bent at the knee, which is why it belongs to the boss of the knights. It’s the leader, telling all the other horses to follow him into battle, ready to run like the wind towards the enemy. They always protect their city, the knights do. I place the knight on his horse, struggling for a moment until the knight finally clicks into place. They’re tightly attached, but I was strong enough to separate them. I gleam with pride. I really am strong. Far too strong to be a stupid musketeer.

Next year I'll be a knight, I'm sure of it. Unlike Mickey and Rick, who are pretty stupid, because they’re both a year younger than me. They’re twins, mommy told me. They have the same birthday. I don't have any brothers or sisters, so I celebrate my birthday by myself.

Carefully, I resurrect my army, then glance at the enemy. A play dough dragon, that I made at school a few days back, sits opposite them, ready to spit fire from his mouth and nose. He’s strong, the dragon is, but my knight will win like he always does. He will defeat the bad dragon, and then they’ll all be happy, and all the knights will go home and eat the dinners that their wives made for them, and tell the story of the dragon to their children. I smile. It’s a good story, and I wish it were really true.

I don’t have any toys that I can use as the wives or children, but I imagine them nevertheless. The yelling from downstairs grows louder, and I lift my eyes to the door of my room. I feel my eyes prickle; my face growing hot as I hold back the sobs. Remembering daddy’s words I hold my breath, doing my best to act like he told me to. You’re a big boy, Jim, and big boys don’t cry. You’re six, you should be able to stop that flow of baby tears, son. Grow up, you’re past all that sobbing. What are you, a girl?

Holding my breath I feel my head throb, pain beating through it with every bu-bump of my heart. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. I widen my eyes, feeling funny, then open my mouth and gasp for air. Coughing, I get to my feet, leaning against the wall. My chest hurts on the inside, from not breathing, and I sigh. It hurt, but it worked, too. The tears no longer want to escape, they’re gone. I frown, wondering why I felt so funny all of a sudden. It was almost like hanging upside down from the monkey bars at school for too long, when your face feels all puffy and big. It felt like I was going to fall.

Confused, I turn around and grab the doorknob, pulling the door open. Maybe daddy knows why it feels so funny, I think, a smile playing around the corners of my lips. Daddy knows everything, that’s why he’s the boss in my house. Mommy doesn’t like it, though, and argues a lot. That’s what Daddy told me; that it’s mommy who starts the arguments, that it’s mommy’s fault that they yell. I feel bad for mommy, though, because she always cries when they fight, whereas dad is a big boy and doesn’t. Daddy is a big boy, he shouts instead of crying, because that is what real men do. That’s what daddy said. And what daddy says is true.

I run down the stairs, my feet drumming loudly as I run, and I can't hear them yelling. At the bottom I turn, smiling. Then I run back up, stomping as hard as I can, making as much noise as I want. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. I keep going until my side stings, and then I stop, pressing my hand against the sore, achy spot as I catch my breath. I couldn’t hear them when I ran, and it was amazing.

They haven’t even noticed what I did, and it makes me feel angry. They don’t pay attention, they don’t care. Despite the pain I sprint to my room, then fight the knights, picking them up and throwing them as hard as I can. They hit the window, the wall, the door of my cupboard, and the ceiling, and all of them smash back down into the floor.

“Stupid knights!” I shriek, as loud as I can. “Stupid mom! Stupid dad!”

I grab my blankets and pillow, tearing them off the bed, throwing them onto the ground. They trip me up as the blankets tangle around my legs, and I topple over, falling flat on my back on the softness of my blankets. There I lie, staring up at the ceiling. I growl, annoyed. “Stupid, stupid blankets!”

I say the word ‘stupid’ twice, because that’s worse than once. It’s meaner. It’s even meaner to say other things. If the blankets were a person I'd tell them that they were a poopoo-face. But I can't say that to blankets, because they don't have a face. It isn’t fair that I can’t say that, because I really want to just yell it at the blankets. Why do they not have a face? I feel angry, because it isn't fair.

"Dumb blanket!" I shout, wanting nothing more than to make so much noise that mommy and daddy would come upstairs and tell me off. Any attention would be better than hearing them yell at each other. Even yelling at me would be better, because they never yell at me as loudly as they yell at each other. They’re meaner to each other than they are to me.

They don’t care about me, I think, they just fight all the time, and they don’t care that I don’t want them to. My thoughts race. Maybe if I do something stupid, they’ll pay attention to me. Then they’ll be mad at me, instead of being mad at each other. If they’re mad at me, they’ll be on the same side, they’ll be on the grown-up, parent side together, and they won’t yell anymore. If I do something stupid and get hurt, that is. They won’t yell at me if I get hurt. They’ll be nice to me.

My footsteps barely make a sound as I get to my feet, stepping over the defeated knights, the fallen horses. They don’t seem real any longer, at all, and I know that the battle is over. I remember the feeling I had earlier, when I held my breath for too long. It felt like I was falling. It wasn’t all that bad, if I look back at it, and I bet falling for real would be way badder than that.

I kick at the knights, feeling sad and angry at the same time. They’re not my friends. If they were, they’d be real, they’d come and tell mom and dad not to fight, not to yell anymore. They’d let me ride on their horses, and teach me how to fight with swords. I’d be really good at it, and they’d love and praise me. They’d care about me, and one day I’d be the one riding the horse with the bent leg. I’d lead them all into battle. I’d be the boss of the knights, and there would be no boss of the boss of the knights anymore, because I am the most powerful boss.

I walk to my door, reaching up to grab the doorknob. Does holding my breath really feel like falling? I wouldn’t know, I’ve never fallen any more than toppling over on the playground, or the way I fell down just not because of those dumb blankets. I scowl, deciding to say it after all, and lean towards the blankets, shouting. "Poopoo-face!" at the top of my lungs. It feels good, because I'm not allowed to say it. Mommy said it wasn't nice to say it, but I can say it anyways. Because I’m the boss of the boss of the knights.

As I tread out of my room I hear something break downstairs, accompanied by more yelling. Mom cries, dad screams. I cover my ears with my hands, walking towards the stairs. My toes curl over the edge of the first step, sticking into the nothingness that exists where the step ends. Pressing my hands more tightly against the side of my head I close my eyes. I can still hear them; screaming, crying, yelling, hating.

Opening my mouth I force all my frustration out of myself; and just like daddy, I yell. It comes from low in my belly, rumbling its way up my chest, streaming out of my mouth with more noise than I thought was possible. I’m a big boy, and big boys don’t cry, I think, feeling grown up as my throat begins to ache. The yelling drowns everything out. Well, everything except for the sound of the living room door being yanked open. Now I know that mom and dad can see me, and I stop yelling.

“I’m a big boy.” I say. “I’m a big boy.”

I got their attention, now. But did I get their interest? Their… love? If I do something stupid they won’t yell anymore, and maybe daddy would even cry. Would he? I ponder the possibility, then I hear daddy shout something. The words are lost because I’m still pressing my hands against my ears. A fragment reaches me, and my heart aches. He’s being mean to me again. My eyes burn with tears, and this time I let them roll down my cheeks like warm shower water. As he continues to shout I drop my arms, then stretch them out in front of me, slowly.

“Jim, cut the crap! Stop crying! Get your butt downstairs right now.” He bellows. I imagine his face is red, that spit drizzles from his mouth as he yells, but I can’t see him, I keep my eyes clenched shut. “Jim, what are you, a freaking baby? You’re not a big boy at all. Get downstairs now and stop the crying!”

My tears stream more quickly, now, and I feel them dripping down onto my bare feet. They’re warm as they slide down my toes, plunging down into the nothingness over the edge of the step.

“I am a big boy!” I screech, the sound so piercing that even daddy silences. I won, I think, listening to the silence as pride bubbled through me. I won from daddy. See, I say to him in my thoughts, see that I am a big boy?

Then I let myself fall.