Author's Note: I wrote this piece as an assignment for point of view. The first section is my explanation of how the book A Child Called It is interpreted by readers because of the perspective of the narrator. The following section is my thoughts of how the dad views things.
From the first page of the book A Child Called It, David Pelzer immediately snatches, not only your attention, but your pity. He gives you insight on what life is like for a boy whose mother thinks of him as nothing other than a punching bag and disgrace to his family's name. Hearing, first hand, what it is like in the moment of being abused fills readers hearts with sorrow. And the sorrow has it's way of turning itself into anger when you realize that other people were aware of the struggles he was going through: they just didn't help him.
Take David's father for example. As a father, he loved his son very much; even when his wife disprove of it. He'd sneak David food when his mother forbid to feed him dinner and he'd talk to him when no one else would. But what his father failed to do was stop the abuse. Talk sense into his wife and insist on her backing off the poor child. Instead, David tells the readers that his father would tend to run away. Take long business trips and not arrive home til late at night, sometimes three of four days later.
This is what upsets the readers -- when a character such as he is well aware of the troubles his son is facing and the insanity of his wife and, instead of putting a stop to it, he runs away from it. Some say he's a coward. Others quote that he is just as bad as his wife. But all these people, they don't know him. They don't know his real story. Even David, complaining his father never did anything for him and never loved him; he never knew.
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I quietly opened the door, stepped inside my house and checked the time on my watch; it was nearly three in the morning. I then proceeded to tip-toe down the hall, hoping not to wake anyone, although, seeing the light on in the kitchen indicated that they were already up. I began walking towards it when I stopped myself. I knew better than to go in there. So instead, I sat down on the chair in my cold, dark living room and watched the shadow that cover the kitchen wall. I saw every punch and every kick and each time she hit him, my heart broke more and more. I took a sip of the half empty beer can that was sitting on the table next to me with four others just like it and, again, considered going in there to save my little boy, but I couldn't do it. I knew exactly how she felt about me interrupting them and trying to stop her so I reminded myself that it was better to just keep quiet and pretend nothing was happening. I closed my eyes and all I could hear was the sound of her grunting with each swing and the gasps he drew each time he was hit. I imagined him trying to hold back his tears and cries for help. And I imagined her, not holding back anything; beating him with all of her strength. And then, from the mouth of my six year old son, I heard him repeat "I am a bad boy, I am a bad boy, I am a bad boy".
When this happened I knew it was over and it was only moments later when I heard my wife dismiss him back to his bedroom in the basement. She slammed the door shut behind him, turned around and finally entered the living room. She looked at me. I looked at her. But neither of us said anything. It was as if there were a transparent wall put up in between us, barricading her and her thoughts from me and mine. We were in the same room...but we weren't together. But the wall came tumbling down to rubble as she began to speak:
"You're back," she began.
My hands clenched, my tongue went dry, and I could feel the blood move around in my body.
"Where'd you run off to this time?"
I sat up straight, setting the beer can back on the coffee table table, and answered her. "Some 24- hour motel on the other side of town. Nothing too special, but it was the only place I could find."
"And the bruises?"
"Almost gone. I figured I could hide what's left of them under my clothes but everything visible have been gone since this morning."
"Good. Now that will teach you not to stand up for that runt of the litter anymore."
My tongue was tied; I didn't know how to respond to that anymore. So, in the absence of my words, I just nodded the kind of nod you would give to king or queen, someone superior to you to show them they're in power. That they have total control over you.
"So why such a late return tonight? What, was the motels check- out time 2:30am or something?"
The sarcasm in her voice stuck me a little uneasy, however, I tried to keep my composure calm as my brain scrambled to think of an excuse. My thoughts were quickly cutoff, though, as her stern voice interrupted me again:
"You thought I'd be asleep, didn't you? You thought if you came back late enough at night, you wouldn't have to deal with this, uhh, awkward encounter with me, huh? Well am I right? You're a coward."
She was right. I am a coward. I thought if I came home as late as I did, I could avoid this conversation. I thought I told my wife to stop abusing our son, she'd believe me instead of beating me. I thought if the bruises and scars on the outside went away, the ones on the inside would fade, too. And, above all, I thought that if I ran away from my home for a few nights, I'd come back and everything would be normal. So, as deranged and delusional as she is, my wife was right. I am a coward.
