She sat in the corner, frightened, clutching her teddy bear.
Boom, boom, boom.
The music grew louder, and the little girl covered her ears.
She was too young to understand, as most three year olds are.
Her parents were upstairs drunk.
Her cousins were playing Monopoly, ignoring her whimpers.
Blood ran down her cheek from where her father had hit her.
Why?
Because she asked him for “her baba.”
She only wanted a bottle of milk, so she could curl up in her blanket and sleep.
But seeing as how Daddy was too drunk to care, he called her a “filthy, wretched thing” and slapped her.
She ran downstairs to the corner, her teddy bear in one hand, her blankie in the other.
The tears streaked her face clean of the blood.
Why didn’t Mommy help her?
Oh, right.
Cause Mommy was as drunk as Daddy.
She grabbed a pillow off the couch, going back to her corner.
She clutched her teddy bear, and closed her eyes.
Nightmares plauged her.
She whimpered in her sleep.
And the music played on.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.