I cannot move on my own. I cannot speak on my own. I cannot eat. I

cannot sleep. I cannot do anything on my own. That is, I cannot do anything

on my own except see, hear, think, and feel. I would love, more than

anything, to get up and walk across the room, but all I can do is sit and

listen as broken sobs fill the otherwise silent room.

I assume that the sounds are coming from the young boy who cares

for me, but I cannot be sure since he is not in my line of sight. Suddenly, I

am picked up, and held close to a warm, shaking body. My assumption was

correct. The young boy is currently sobbing into my soft, slightly worn fur as

he holds me close. He has yet another dark purple bruise on his arm, I

notice, and it adds to the mottled blue and purple painting on the canvas

that is his small body.

These are the moments where I wish I could do more than just sit and

stare. This small boy is hurting, physically and mentally, and all I can do is

sit and watch it all unfold in front of me. The boy lies down in his bed then,

still clutching me to his chest. His tears seem to have subsided, but he is still

shaking. I catch a glimpse of his face out of the corner of my eye; his small

is brow furrowed, his eyes red and puffy, his face contorted into a mask of

pain.

He holds me closer to him, sniffing softly and burying his face into my

fur once again. I feel his chest rising and falling as his breathing slows and

steadies into soft snores. I feel better knowing that he has calmed down

enough to be able to sleep, but I have a feeling that this definitely will not

be the last time this boy will cry himself to sleep with me in his arms.

I wish that he did not have to experience this, but I am glad that I am

able to be there for him during these times, even if it is just sitting in his

arms and allowing him to cry into my fur. The role I play in this boy’s life

may be small, but it is definitely important.