The door is closed. It's closed but she can still hear whats going on outside of the room. Sometimes there's raised voices, other times it's quiet. Sometimes she can hear the other children playing and laughing.
That's the worst part of it, knowing that they are normal, happy, safe. It's as if it compounds her solitude, her anxiety, her fear.
She stands at the end of her small bed, nervously wringing her clammy hands.
Her heart is pumping fast, adrenalin from fear courses through her little body.
Her mind races, thinking sad things like if she stands and looks attentive maybe it will go better for her than if she was just sitting. Maybe it would soften what was coming, as if she can in some invisible way influence her predicament.
Maybe she'll be forgiven. And this will all just go away.
She knows deep down her hope is pointless. She knows. But she can't help desperately hoping.
Her body trembles with nervousness as each minute ticks by, filling her gut with cold dread. It's almost as if this is the worst part. The waiting.
