On the floor huddled in a corner, pressed up against cold cold tiles the little girl cries. She is gasping in short bursts, her body held in silent contortion, every ounce of energy devoted to overcoming the overwhelming sensation within her. Her tears are small comfort to a heart that is unable to feel anything but a slow burning pain. Her stomach churns once more; she is a cocoon latched firmly to the cold cold tiles.


Pity her? She doesn’t seem to seek it. Help her? She only asks for more cold tiles. Love her? She asks for a moment of silence, a moment alone if you’d please. The tip of a finger breaks free of clenched knuckles and points toward the door; clearly, she needs no one.


One wonders what is running through this girl’s mind as she slowly releases her cramped muscles and slides to the floor at dawn, lying in a crumpled mess a foot away from the toilet, wrapped in the soft towel she managed to pull down – her single comfort for the sleep that follows.


Is she dreaming?


Is she perhaps finally facing the invisible beast that held her in his arms? Face down on the cold cold tiles...