A tiny body convulsed with fury, the child let out a piercing scream that cut through the air like a siren. His limbs flailed wildly, scratching at anything within reach—walls, floor, even his own skin—as if trying to claw his way out of his own frustration. His face was blotchy red, mouth open in a howl that seemed too powerful for someone so small.
Tears streamed down his cheeks in rivers, his cries unrelenting and primal. He thrashed on the ground, caught in the grip of something beyond a normal tantrum—his body stiffened in sharp jerks, a seizure of emotion or overstimulation that sent shockwaves through his tiny frame.
In his clutches was a tattered towel, the fabric balled in his fists like a lifeline. Every attempt to ease it away from him was met with another surge of shrieking resistance. “No!” he wailed, hoarse and breathless. The towel, damp and worn, meant something to him—comfort, security, identity perhaps—but now it was soaked in desperation.
Attempts to calm him only amplified the chaos. The mere suggestion of removing the towel sparked another bout of flailing, his eyes wide in terror, his back arching as if bracing for loss. It wasn’t just an object being taken—it was safety.
Adults stood helpless, unsure whether to restrain, soothe, or simply wait it out. The storm had to pass. But in that moment, all that existed was his scream, his sorrow, his unwillingness to let go.
