Status: Being Written (:
She Was Just a Little Girl
Chapter 1: The Beginning
She was just a little girl when it happened; six years old when her entire world was shaken. Somehow, she managed a strength far beyond her years and held on when no one else could. She is the only one left now. The others sit in silent slumbers far beneath the ground awaiting for her to join them. Maybe she will. No, she definitely will. It is all a matter of timing as they say.
It was 10 years ago to the day, raining just as it is now. She remembers because of the footprints on the carpet. The carpet. The carpet her mom worked so hard to clean that morning. Muddy footprints leading from the door and down the hallway as she waited, hidden from site behind the couch. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. How long she waited, she didn’t know. Then, more muddy footprints. Except, this time, the footprints were paired with a bloody streak. The smell of pennies and dirt is the last memory she has of her parents.
Her brother was eleven and trying to act brave. He found her curled up in a tiny cubby behind the sofa. He pulled her out and held her, trying so hard to control his shaking. After all, he was the man of the house now. The police found them the next morning, expressionless and mute. They took them down to the station to identify and contact relatives. That’s where they ran into a problem. There were no relatives. It was only them. Their parents were all they had.
He was the first to talk. It took a week. They had been put into an orphanage on the other side of the city. His first words were to his sister. They were sitting on their new bed. He was holding her again because she couldn’t stop shaking. He told her he would always be there to protect her. Funny thing, promised like that. No one ever keeps them.
Her first words weren’t until two years later. They had pronounced her damaged beyond repair and, if we’re being honest, maybe she was. She couldn’t sleep. They had to force feed her. She couldn’t be anywhere alone or she would begin to convulse. Her first words after all that time happened at her brother’s funeral. She walked up silently to his casket and looked down at his lifeless body. She touched his head, fighting off the pain as long as she could. She leaned down toward him and whispered, “You lied.”
Her brother had taken to many pills. He was thirteen years old and died by way of overdose. He had gotten the pills from an older boy at the home. It got too much. The nightmares. The pain. He couldn’t take it. He had given up. He left her behind to fend for herself, taking back the only thing that let her sleep at night. She was only eight years old.
Her name is Ella. She is all alone. And she is terrified.
It was 10 years ago to the day, raining just as it is now. She remembers because of the footprints on the carpet. The carpet. The carpet her mom worked so hard to clean that morning. Muddy footprints leading from the door and down the hallway as she waited, hidden from site behind the couch. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. How long she waited, she didn’t know. Then, more muddy footprints. Except, this time, the footprints were paired with a bloody streak. The smell of pennies and dirt is the last memory she has of her parents.
Her brother was eleven and trying to act brave. He found her curled up in a tiny cubby behind the sofa. He pulled her out and held her, trying so hard to control his shaking. After all, he was the man of the house now. The police found them the next morning, expressionless and mute. They took them down to the station to identify and contact relatives. That’s where they ran into a problem. There were no relatives. It was only them. Their parents were all they had.
He was the first to talk. It took a week. They had been put into an orphanage on the other side of the city. His first words were to his sister. They were sitting on their new bed. He was holding her again because she couldn’t stop shaking. He told her he would always be there to protect her. Funny thing, promised like that. No one ever keeps them.
Her first words weren’t until two years later. They had pronounced her damaged beyond repair and, if we’re being honest, maybe she was. She couldn’t sleep. They had to force feed her. She couldn’t be anywhere alone or she would begin to convulse. Her first words after all that time happened at her brother’s funeral. She walked up silently to his casket and looked down at his lifeless body. She touched his head, fighting off the pain as long as she could. She leaned down toward him and whispered, “You lied.”
Her brother had taken to many pills. He was thirteen years old and died by way of overdose. He had gotten the pills from an older boy at the home. It got too much. The nightmares. The pain. He couldn’t take it. He had given up. He left her behind to fend for herself, taking back the only thing that let her sleep at night. She was only eight years old.
Her name is Ella. She is all alone. And she is terrified.
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