She looks in the mirror, and tries to squint her eyes so that she looks different.

The bruises cover her body, but they don’t hurt. They never do. She’s numb—no one can hurt her anymore. It doesn’t matter what they do.

Her dolls sit in a line on their shelf, looking down at her. They know what’s happened, even if she won’t admit it.

It’s ‘cause I’m a bad girl, she reminds herself. It’s all your fault.

She wonders what it’s like to be held. To have someone wrap their arms around you, and love you so much that they never wanted to let go. To have someone stroke your hair, and whisper to you how beautiful you are.

She sits on the edge of her bed, refusing to let the tears come through. Other kids might be scared if they were in her place, but not Miste. She’s tough. She can take it. It doesn’t hurt. Right?

She lies down on the bed, still fully clothed, and slips away into dreamland.