Mauricio Betancourt

I write when I dream the stories

Mauricio Betancourt

Mauricio Betancourt
Cali, Colombia
February 06
Colombian journalist (37). Gay advocator and social worker. I like people and believe people like me. I am as honest and transparent as I can be and like to meet people around the world. I´ve been away from OS for a while but I intent to keep writing and reading of course as it is the only thing that really awakes my heart... Hugs from Colombia and much love

Mauricio Betancourt's Links

SEPTEMBER 2, 2010 5:31PM

Little Frail Porcelain Kid II

Rate: 18 Flag

lonely_boyNothing was harder than helping my body heal and go back to normal, after being attacked by a group of drunken, grown up, men. out of their heads and conscience; after being attacked by darkness and evil; after having my innocence ripped away.

I was a little boy, 9 years old and my eyes saw things they should never have. My body felt things it should never have. I swear, I still can smell them, the musk, the sweat, the breath, the heat, the dirt, the pain. The loneliness when I grabbed my Dad's hand and looked into his eyes while they were breaking my bones, ripping my flesh  and breaking my heart with their steamy man machines. I pleaded to him, with my eyes, to make all of this stop.

I want my mommy!

Pain and shame. Pain and shame but, above all, PAIN.


ositoMy inmature mind couldn't find the explanations for those actions. My inmature mind just thought that I had it coming because of being what I was. What I am. Bad boys deserve to get bad things....and punishement. That is what I always felt from then until I became an adult.


My blurry eyes saw that someone else entered that warehouse. My heart knew it was Mom.  Yes, it was her voice.  Her scream.  Her anguish, for her son.  It was my Mom!  Everything is over now! I knew the nightmare was over right then and there.  I don't remember anything else.  It was like my mind let go when I knew that Mom was there and everything was going to be just fine.  Doctors were protective but neither wise nor heroic enough to save me from this evil.  No.  They'd fixed the outside. They were not to fix the inside. Time went by, scars remain and I still bleed inside. Broken soul and heart. All broken.

That wasn't the first time that Little Frail Porcelain Kid had to endure something like that. Oh no. What happened in the back of that store, in the warehouse,  was the last thing Mom was willing to take from my drunken father.

It's okay. Do you remember where you live son?

I was crying. I didn't really pay attention to what those people, who found me, were asking me. Big, round, brown eyes full of tears and fear. Barefoot. Mud up to my knees. A bleeding cut on my calf. Crying. Anguishing. Crying as a six year old would, one that felt very lost.

boyI, the little frail porcelain kid never felt abandoned, in my mind I convinced my self that I just got lost . On top of that I was scared to death because dad was going to be furious. I moved from the spot where he had left me. I should not have moved from there. Dad is going to hit me for not doing what he told me to do.

Don't move from wherever dad places you to wait for him to return. That was a lesson I learned the hard way.

Is ok. Do you remember where you live son?


Morning Local News

Cali, June 1982

El País Daily

Social Services


A seven year old boy, lost and suffering from

hypothermia, was found today wandering

around the southern swamp.

When asked what he was doing there

the child answered, he was waiting

for his daddy to get him.

If you recognize him from this picture,

please call the local newspaper's

Social Services department. 

There is a family out there who are worried

and wanting for him to return home.

That was something close to the article the local news paper posted after some folks found me walking around the swamp, exhausted, filthy and barefoot. I was relieved they had found me, but also very worried about my Dad's retaliation.

Swirly pic of little boy by Ink SwampMy mother wanted me home, for my father nothing was more distant from what he really wanted. My sister was born three days before this happened. Before dad decided to leave me to my luck in that swamp.


Honey, wake up. Wake up baby. Come on! Wake up. Get under the bed and don't come out until I tell you ok?


Shhh is ok. Get under the bed.


I saw Mom go back to her bedroom and get into her bed. My Dad's shoes entered my view. My heart was jumping out of my chest. Mom spoke with him, he replied but I don't remember the words. I remember the sound of a bottle smashing to the floor, next to her feet. Cuts, blood.

lonely_boy_RGB650x397Mom ran to the back of the house, he grabbed her. She was pregnant. She got loose and ran to my room and tried to close the door. He got her again. Screams. Woman's screams. Man's shouts. Mom hit the floor and writhed in agony. Grabbed her belly looked at me, under the bed, and cried.

Dad grabbed her hair and pulled her up. I came out from under the bed and grabbed his arm. He grabbed me by the neck and threw me against Mom's feet. He moved towards us. I grasped mom's calves. He punched mom in her belly. Warm water came out of her and soaked my head and face. She screamed. I screamed. Dad screamed.  Black....Black.

I woke up in a room that wasn't mine.  I had peed myself. Whose bed is this? Now I felt the pressure of embarrasment. As if I didn't have enough to think about. I walked out of the bedroom and into a hallway. Looking up for my Mom. An old lady came to me as soon as she spotted me. Hugged me with love and care. Realizing I was all wet with pee and after a tender smile she took me to the bathroom, bathed me and changed my clothes.  She smiled. She smelt funny.

You have a little sister now... your mommy is in the hospital with your daddy and they will be back soon, okay? Don't  you worry honey you are safe here okay?

I have a sister now. Poor sweet little thing. She was already learning that life for a child,  in this world, was not to be pleasant. A fist got her out of her comfortable and safe home and got her into hell. Poor sweet little thing.

After a long time in that old lady's house, she came to the room and told me that Mom was at the door to get me.  I ran.  As if the world had just disapeared. I ran. I ran. I ordered my feet to be fast, to get me to her arms.  I needed her so much. 

When I saw her there at the door, smiling at me, I just couldn't help it and started crying. I don't know why I was crying, but it was all in my heart. It was like feeling great relief, now that I saw her there smiling at me after the nightmare we had the other night.  She was there all fine, beautiful and smiling and I was running to her and her arms. I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway.

Construction boots got closer to Mom. I panicked. I froze. I stopped. I cried. I ran. It's dad with a baby in his arms. Smiling. Glowing. He looked lovingly at me and said;

Come here champion... you have a new sister and she is hermosa! 

He smiled while looking at my sister. He touched her. I panicked. Cried. Ran to him and took my sister out of his arms. It was quick and sudden. I held her. A reflection. The grown-ups went mute. My Dad looked at me with hatred. I didn't want him to get her. Now he really hated me!

We, my dad and I, are now riding a bus. I don't know where we are going to. It was a long ride. He holds my hand and helps me get off the bus. We start walking until we got to a swamp. He smiles and says;

Stay here. I will be gone for a while but I will come back soon, okay? Just don't move from here. Don't go anywhere else. Stay here, in this spot, so I can find you when I get back, okay? Do n´t you move. I will be back soon.

Continue to....

 Little Frail Porcelain Kid III

By Mauricio Betancourt 2010©



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Mauricio, you're killing me here. I hate these stories of grown people doing this to children. I think I could kill someone like that, and not miss a minute of sleep. I'm sorry you were dealt these cards. I'm looking forward to a better ending.
about as raw anything i can remember
Mauricio, my heart is broken reading this story. This is too much for any child to have to endure.
This is very painful. I cannot imagine how this will end. I am dumbstruck that it was allowed to continue. I wonder, how does this take place, and yet, I know it does. In the end, I know you, if it is you, are scared in some way. My hope is always that it can be fiction, that if true, those who deserve to be were punished, that love and comfort found their way to you and that life for all its darkness became light. R
Mauricio, I honor that you have shared your story here. There are many who have endured what you have, and to know that you survived, as some of us do, is glorious. xox
Keep going, chamo. I trust you. I know it will get better.
Heartbreaking and well written and rated with BIG hugs:)
There is such a freshness and innocence in your telling of this story, Mauro. From the writing point of view, your (narrator's) voice and point of view are flawless. Phrases such as :"A fist got her out of her comfortable and safe home and got her into hell." also make me gasp in their poignancy. Keep on writing, my Colombian friend!
Mauricio, I really thought I had commented on this heart-ripping post yesterday. I might have been too upset and just forgot to come back later. I am so impressed with your ability to write in English. I would think that something as emotionally-charged as this would make the task doubly difficult. Your story makes we physically ill. I cannot tell you how sad it makes me.

Okay, now I see that I failed to notice this is Part II. After reading it, I'm not sure I'll make it through the entire story, but I'll be right here anyway. You are one brave hombre, Mauricio.

You guys... Now that I read your comments I have to ask you to forgive me if this is too much for you... it was too much for the ones who lived it and had to take it.... please... if you don´t like it.. demand me to stop and I will... I swear to the Lord I will
Love you all
Hugs from Colombia
Powerful story telling! Thanks for sharing.
Best Wishes,
No, no. I think you should keep going and finish it.

Still with you. Still reading. Keep writing.
It is a story that needs to be told, my friend, keep going.

Rated and Tink Picked.
You keep going, if people can't read it they will stop. Stop because the pain is too much. But now is the time for you to tell your story. I'm so sorry... and I can see you grabbing your baby sister from him...we learn at a young age who we are. r
No, please don't stop. it is painful and heartbreaking to read, but it is a story that must be told. And we must witness it, so we never forget that we must stay aware of what goes on in our families and neighborhoods and how we must do whatever necessary to protect the precious children.