There is a girl standing on the sidewalk in front of my house. She is only around six years old, with dirty blonde hair and big brown eyes. A thin, red sundress hangs down her body; her feet are naked. Her fingers are dancing absentmindedly through her hair, twisting, twirling, turning. She is simply standing and staring at my door. Her large dirt-colored eyes reflect nothing.The sun is bursting with light today. But there is a shadow cast upon her tiny, porcelain features. My skin itches, my hands are shaking, and I want to rip, tear, and scream. Why is she there? "Just go play!," I yell at her. Those deep abysses of hers glance up at my mouth, (which is currently hanging out of the upstairs window), and then fall back to watching the usual focal point that is my blue front door.
There is a vase of poppies sitting sinfully on my desk. I throw the whole thing at the wall. Glass shatters, water drips, red bombs fall. I am sobbing painfully, hopelessly. "PLEASE, " I scream. It is to no avail. This whole episode affects her in no way. My soul aches with an uncontrollable need to erase this small child. I hurt. I hurt. I hurt. Now I am on the floor, and my whole body is shaking with memories. I am sitting on a scratchy green armchair, there is a lap underneath me, and dry fingers are probing. There is blackness.
That's when I realize that this girl, this awful child, is myself. She is the dead part of me. The bits and pieces that my dear old daddy destroyed with an aching lust. She is my pitiful past.
There is only one thing to do. I run and I open the door. A hint of a smile graces the girls lips as she walks inside.