The small child whispers, her body depleted with her last effort to be heard.  It’s The Rag Doll Syndrome; the heaviness and weight of her small body has become like that of a dead child. Dead, for the Dead Girl is nearby.  The fingers of this body lay waste with poison and every grasp is dropped and every pen mark is drawn downward.  There is nothing. Nothing. But deadened space. Vacant.  But that of a RagDoll’s fortune of torture and endurance to a life she died within from.  She will always be The Forever Hurt Child.

help

The small child whispers, and nobody whispers back.  In the deepest and darkest corners, where no light could possibly exist, a quiet voice meekly asks and wonders, “How?”

Thy answer remains unknown while amidst a cyclone of turmoil, wonderment, attempts at life simultaneously with attempts at self-death.

help

The small child whispers, and only I know how to write the narration that supersedes the Silencers and everyone with their jobs and needs of every dynamic proportion untold.

help

The small child whispers.