It was strange and almost curious the way his eyes told a different story. He tumbled about, giggling and clapping about with the other children and I was sure that I could have been seeing things. Maybe it was an accident, like with an animal, maybe it was in a dream. Surely he couldn’t understand what that really meant, what it really felt like. I didn’t see it in his eyes. They didn’t look empty, but you can never know with them.

I’ve been able to see them for a long time, the numbers. Rising up and up nearly every day. People who sit in the streets, people who go to work, go to school, mothers, fathers, friends. One by one they display themselves to me and I keep it, their secrets, their kill counts. I have not seen any that surprise me anymore, even with those closest to me. What a great secret to hold, that you’ve killer someone and it makes me wonder how many people truly know the people around them.

As an adult, it’s no longer disheartening to see other adults with these numbers. It makes you wonder what their stories really are, but this one. This child. A perfect number one above his head as he plays pirates in the sand with his many friends on this quiet beach. I wonder what he could have been through at so young an age, but my thought does not stay for too long.

I am greeted with a smile by a woman I do not know who has been monitoring the children and I can see on her face that she is worn out. She sits relatively close and I do not make eye contact with her but I already see she is looking for some kind of conversation that does not include toys or snacks.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen him smile in a long time.” She was looking towards the boy and I came to a conclusion that he was hers.

“Your son?”

“Mm,” she nodded in agreement. “He’s much more lively now since our accident.”

“Accident?” I ask, wondering if this is the piece to the puzzle.

“My daughter recently passed, his little sister. She was only a few weeks old and,” her voice cracked, “he was the only one there to witness it.” I immediately turned around to look at her and I saw something that I felt was unfamiliar for mothers. Fear. Fear of her own child. Her eyes wandered back to her son as did mine and his eyes met ours.