Training a Child to Kill

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“Let go of everything when you write, and try at a simple beginning with simple words to express what you have inside. It won’t begin smoothly. Allow yourself to be awkward. You are stripping yourself. You are exposing your life, not how your ego would like to see you represented, but how you are as a human being.” – from Writing Down the Bones – Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg.

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I have been reading Writing Down the Bones over the past few months and doing the writing practice author Natalie Goldberg describes and recommends in it. The practice entails timing my writing and keeping my hand moving – not stopping to re-read or cross out. The whole idea is not to think or get logical, but as Natalie Goldberg says, is to –

“…..burn through to first thoughts, to the place where energy is unobstructed by social politeness or the internal censor, to the place where you are writing what your mind actually sees and feels, not what it thinks it should see or feel.”

The following is a writing practice I did a few days ago. (The title was written afterwards.)

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Training A Child to Kill.

Black bars, white spaces, metal vertical lines evenly spaced, forming an iron cage. A noose hangs from above. I am a small child, pale skin, dappled with freckles, large blue eyes, blonde, red auburn hair, and I am quivering with fear. A child five years old, trembling, because I am cold and frightened.

I am with a man in a military uniform, he is staring at me sternly. He wants me to help, – help stab a boy who lays near a pool of his own blood on the floor. The military man and a man in a white lab coat are there, watching me, waiting; staring coldly, harshly, – menacingly.

I am small and weak compared to them. I do not want to hurt the boy. I do not want to be alive. I don’t want any of this, – anything where people hurt and kill and destroy a child; destroy soft, kind eyes, brown orbs, tender and soft brown skin, laying in a pile of death.

I am a child and I want to run and hide and bring the brown skinned boy on the floor back to life; reinsert his life, his blood, shining crimson with light, puddling like a sea of living energy on the floor. The brown eyed boy with dark rich brown hair is staring, empty eyed. A white bird in me knows he is okay; he is alive, he is dancing above us, singing. The little boy is free from all the pain and cruelty. I am feeling this, sensing it as a child.

I can also sense the hostility, the coldness, the emptiness of soul in the men standing in the room. A dagger is shown to me. I am told to take it. I am five years old. I am told to go over to the brown haired, brown eyed boy’s slender, crumpled body and plunge the dagger into him.

I am lost in a sea of defiance, hurt, and horror. I am stunned and angry. I do not move. I do not look at the knife or the man handing it to me. I want to spit at it,- spit and snarl, kick and bite. The soldier man in a grey uniform bends over, stares into my face, and says:

“If you do not obey, we will continue to hurt and kill children this way until you do.”

He hisses this at me, his breath hot and wet, his eyes like burning dark suns creased small, his voice stinging like a slap to my face. I am five years old and I have seen and experienced enough of their cruelty and torture to know that they will beat, stab, hang, and kill more children if I do not do as they say.

I am empty, empty, empty, and I take the dagger as it is pressed into the palm of my hand. I take it and hold it, – another part of me holds it; an empty lifeless part, a dead child, dead to her heart and soul, but a child who is practical and knows that if I obey, other children may suffer less.

I walk to the body of the brown skinned boy laying in a pile on the floor, close to a pool of his own life, – his blood; and I kneel beside him and start to penetrate; – to stab his soft brown skin.

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The 20 minute timer I had set went off here.

I was feeling deeply shaken and emotional. I cried very deeply for awhile. A few minutes later I wrote the following:

I feel really hurt and angry. I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to be a child who was manipulated, tortured and programmed by the military; but I was. I was, and I remember; my body remembers. If I am courageous and strong and write and speak and draw my truth, other children may be saved from the hell of this cruelty. If I am courageous and express my truth, others who have experienced this kind of torture may be helped to heal. My truth and expressing it could help heal and save myself and others.

– Sparrow

For more information on military mind control programs, visit:

https://www.wanttoknow.info/mindcontrol