Now broken she kneels to the ground, invading the luscious St. Augustine grass in the front yard of a place she’s expected to call “home”. Adrenaline flowing, she presses her hands upon its thick, hunter- green blades, comforting in their coolness and wet from a previous downpour. She lowers her face to the ground. She feels trapped. Aside from the occasional passing car engine, all she hears are the singing crickets, as she flattens her body against the grassy cushion. She turns her head to the right, looking up at the blaringly invasive porchlight, taunting 100s of miniature flying creatures, all buzzing into the night.

He had held her down to the bed when she’d tried to leave the house, ripping two giant holes in her favorite shirt as a show of his physical power over her own. She’d evasively stormed out through a cascade of throwing punches as he’d chased after her, snatching away her keys in a heated rage and galloping back inside victorious.

He’d left her there, broken amidst the over-manicured front lawn of a place now called “home”. A rumbling from above signals another round of storms as a large drop splashes against her cheek just below her right eye. She refuses to flinch. She makes a pact with herself in the moment to never flinch again. Her sight grows fuzzy and she begins to flashback to another time in another place.

It’s astounding the way memories flicker. In and out like a TV set in need of repair.

A young girl’s room, lights blaring as a tiny brush in a tiny hand strokes the artificial hair of a tiny friend. Sitting on the floor with crossed legs she listens. They’re fighting again. A mental note is made yet she still feels divided from it somehow. Her focus is set on that tiny purple brush with the white bristles, swooshing through her patient doll’s awaiting, golden locks.

A large second story window sets the scene. Streaming lights dance across the obnoxiously magenta carpet surrounding tiny childhood legs and feet. An oak tree sways outside, causing the light inside the little girl’s room to ebb and flow and sway to the music inside of her. A precursor to an approaching storm, soaked in signs of another volatile Texas spring.

She hums melodically to herself as she strokes the little purple brush through her doll’s long, synthetic, goldenrod locks, in an effort to ignore the butterflies which seem to be fluttering against the boundaries of her stomach. The storm moves closer, blowing in sharp gusts through the arms of her patient oaken friend outside the window. The coming spring time madness seems to now be seeping into the walls of her room from the hallway, as a distant yet aggressive mumbling gains momentum from somewhere downstairs.

She jumps at an invasive “bang!” sudden and startling. She finds herself confused about its origin. It thunders through her tiny body, far too close for comfort. And then the yelling starts, just like almost every day before. The screaming follows, louder this time and seemingly interlocked in a dance with the approaching storm outside the walls of her family’s home.

She speaks to her doll from somewhere within herself as a breaking dish crashes through her attempted meditative state. The wind outside picks up, giving further notice to the madness brewing above and within her. A thunderous roar bellows, vibrating the frame of an over exaggerated family home. The yelling downstairs continues, rolling through her in mumbles that don’t make any sense and dressed in words she isn’t allowed to use. The commonality of the event numbs her to its severity as she brushes softly, slowly, feeling the pull, the tug, the presence of something living yet not at all.

A personified and competitive anger echoes from somewhere in the kitchen downstairs, as a pair of tiny feet sneak through the delusional privacy of her bedroom door. It’s her younger brother. He enters drenched in fear and uncertainty, closing the door behind himself softly in an effort to avoid drawing attention from the belly of the beast. Taking a seat on the floor he scooches closer to her, as if attempting to absorb some of her “put-on” power in the moment. The light outside dims and dances between the leaves of the old oak, begging for attention.

Towering beside where they now sit is an antique armoire, dramatically bursting at its seams with stuffed toys, every one of them with names and storylines, with backgrounds and histories.

The yelling continues, synchronizing with the downpour now pervasively howling outside of the second story window, powerful and unaffected by anyone who might care enough to pay attention.

“They’re fighting again” he says softly.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure the whole neighborhood knows that now genius” she replies with a roll of the eyes, just like the “tough girl” she’s trying so hard to be.

The room is filled with girly knick-knacks. A pink corduroy jacket hangs lazily on a little brass hook in the wall by the door. A queen-sized brass bed lined in a pink and white flowery comforter. A small bookshelf stacked to its boundaries with stories about fantasy worlds that don’t exists.

Her brother shudders at a loud bang originating from above and around and downstairs simultaneously. Another fist-shaped section of drywall destroyed, another crash of thunder probes their young minds for recognition of irony.

“Calm down.” She tells him, avoiding her own emotions in order to save face.
He sits against her shoulder now, trembling as she brushes. And brushes and brushes the tiny little blond girl’s hair.

The oak tree dances outside her window as the rain plummets relentlessly now. Her eyes well up as her mother’s do as well from somewhere nearby. The little girl blinks hard in an effort to avoid letting the tears escape their hazel-tinted prisons. Her kid-brother leans into her tighter still, in hopes of absorbing some of her strength.

The stairs rumble as a pair of angry work boots make their way up, filled with rage and an unreasonable jealousy. A bedroom door slams as the sobs downstairs continue.

“It’s over now” the young girl assures her whimpering younger sibling, as the rain pours down in massive, calming streams outside the window. “It’s over now…”

An invasive crack of thunder brings her back. She’s in the grass again outside of a place she’s supposed to call “home”. She sits up slowly, still kneeling, lifting her face invitingly toward the downpour as it comes now ferociously.

“What now?” She wonders aloud in honor of the starless sky above her. “What now…”

For a moment she thinks over her options, then drudgingly and as if on cue she stands, heading back into the house, defeated and broken, sullen and shattered.

Somewhere lost in the clutches of time’s cold, unforgiving grasp; a young girl, now alone, crawls into the safety of an antique armoire. She places herself upon the cushioning of her many stuffed companions within the security of its wooden walls. Closing herself in, she is suddenly startled by one last “bang!” and another door being slammed from afar. In the now silent darkness she feels warm yet also strangely cold. She shivers as a tear is allowed to fall to her frozen cheek. A few more follow, pasting themselves to her skin in the comforting humidity of the armoire. Her heartbeat powers on, echoing through the walls of her chest, creating her own personal lullaby. She soon finds herself asleep.