She looks around. Her daddy is no longer here. The bare stem of her lollipop lays on the mattress in his place as if to take his role. As if to tell her, It’s okay! It’s okay that Daddy is gone. I’m here. I’m here with you! The top of the stem has been chewed up and crushed to a point like the tip of the syringe. She picks it up and pops it back into her mouth, savoring the last bit of flavor still trapped within the paper stem. Her muscles decompress.

The scratch continues, demanding attention. She can hear the uninterrupted ktch-ktch-ktch as if it is right next to her ear. She turns to the wall behind her mattress, places one nail against the concrete, and digs, welcoming in the familiar sound. The ktch-ktch-ktch scratches back at a heightened speed, excited by her response.

It—whatever it is behind the wall (or maybe within the wall)—has visited her many times before. It calls her at random, she supposes when it can, starting off slow then growing irate when not acknowledged. The first time she heard it, she had a similar experience to that of her first meeting with the stain. She cowered, grew curious, grew brave, and then tested the threat. And just like the stain, the scratch did not hurt her. It did not yank her into its dark clutches through its grip on her finger. It did not drag her into the Outside for her to be preyed and feasted upon by creatures alike. (It has passed her mind many times before that the scratch might be a creature from the Outside, waiting behind the wall, gaining her trust, tempting her closer, stripping away at her defenses, until one day . . .)

She knows it would probably be safest for her to ignore the scratch. Then she could forgo her fears altogether. But it would only scratch longer and louder, stealing away her sleep. And although this reason is enough, there is still another reason why she chooses to entertain the scratch: to take her chance at being face to face with a hungry, panting creature on the other side. It is a reason she only vaguely understands because she has never known a life where she is not lonely. And time passes effortlessly when they are together.

So she scratches back.

Eventually the scratching stops, and so does the passage of time, jolting her back into the claustrophobic present. She tries to get its attention back so that it will play with her for a little while longer, wanting so badly to be distracted from her loneliness. She scratches harder and harder, nearly ripping her nail right off its bed in the process, but she hears nothing in return. She bangs her fist against the wall and lets out a groan, daringly near to a scream but not daring enough. There is still only silence.

Silence, which means she is once again alone.

She sighs and turns her back to the wall. She looks around for something else to do, a bubbling frustration filling her chest. On the floor in the center of the room are her toys. Her three toys that are all she ever has to play with. That are supposed to provide her endless fun without ever changing. That often make her feel suffocated in the monotony.