She is always scared. Her eyes are set in a circle of black. They were just two little things that made a hollow spot within the darkness. I have never seen her truly happy, she does seem to be many a times, but then those eyes just give her off. She has made for herself a place within that little package she calls her body. Even inside the outer boundaries of her human frame she has a shrunk version within, the littler her in a little her that is very,very scared. Of life, of laughing a tee wit louder, of giving away, of being free, of allowing her little self burst out of that bubble of a frail outer frame.
Childhood. For some it nibbles away bits and more bits till all it leaves back is in a few years a crumbled human being. And then from then on no matter how much one tries, pieces keep falling off at the gnawed off portions.
Bitter childhoods however bring with it the ability to smile through trauma and bury oneself into a pit hole which after a while becomes strange to the owner too.
I have always tried to delve into her sounds, she believes is laughter.
She pulled the bed sheet over. For there were too many of them sleeping in a row on the floor, she couldn’t pull hard. While she tucked one end of it under her left thigh, she covered her mouth and nose with the right. She bit into the palm of her hand and rolled her eyes at the breath that escaped sheepishly through her nose, She had to breathe or she would die already of the fear that was now building and strangling her at the throat.
They had arrived. The big men were here. And they stayed in these eyes that never saw them ever, forever for now.