Two deep-set blue eyes gaze at me as if asking for help. “Take away these horrible feelings!” he cries to me. But it is all in my head; he cannot speak. He crawls to the floor and getting on all fours tucks his tiny legs underneath his body. His head comes down, as if to rest on his hands, only he begins ferociously banging his forehead against his clasped hands. He is banging so hard that the whole of his body is vibrating each time contact is made. I make no attempt to stop him, since he is not in immediate danger, and after all, anger (if that’s what this is) is a healthy form of expression. When the tantrum is finished two hands come up and cover his eyes and the groan, that awful groan, begins once more.

My eyes come to rest on the self-destruction evidenced by the scrapes and bruises on his forearm. The bite marks on his hand have turned into dark purple and blue splotches surrounded in a rash that has obviously been brutally scratched. His legs are much the same way, but one foot is turned out which causes his walk to have a slight limp, almost a bump, as if his knee did not bend at all.

I take him in my arms, and try to calm him but it is no use. It is no use because he does not hear me. His diaper is changed and once again he allows me to dress him, this time in a pair of sweatpants that resembles the colour of a bowl of pea soup and a fleece sweater that is as green as the rainforest with a bright yellow stripe, which adds a ray of sunshine to the bleak world in which this child exists. I take his feet, tickling them a little, and cover them with two gray socks, but they are removed when I return with his brush. His golden hair is thick. Strands of it are coated in ketchup from this morning’s eggs.

I take one hand, the left one, and lead him into the kitchen where I seat him in his special chair. In the kitchen is a hot bowl of tomato soup, one of his favorites. After fastening the little silver snap on his bib, I hand him a small spoon and he begins the ritual that has become his mealtime. Spoon after spoon continuously go into the mouth, most of which are half emptied from the ferocious speed. The amount of food in his mouth becomes too much and the thick orange liquid begins to spill out; but the spoon doesn’t stop.

When the spoon is finally returned to me, the soup is all over the bib, face, and hair of this infantile child. However, a grin finally extends from one ear to the other and two eyes are open wide in satisfaction. The hands, which are also dripping in tomatoey goodness, begin to bang on the table in demand for more of the tummy-warming treat.

When we are finished it’s back to the bedroom, which has been cleaned and now smells like bleach (mixed with the child’s excrement), and into the bathroom to remove a whole bowl of soup from the child’s hands, face, and hair. For every inch toward the child the faded blue facecloth gets, the child moves twice as far backward. It’s a challenge, but eventually the bruising and redness of the face are visible beneath his overgrown mass of hair.