But at least they never leave me.

Her frustration rises a degree in temperature, cooking into anger.

She is reluctant, but after staring at her toys for a few more moments—the stuffed blue dog lying on its side, its black beady eyes fixated on her—she gets up and walks to them. She takes a seat in the center of the spotlight where the lightbulb dangles several feet above her head. She can feel its light pouring down her back, the burning sensation searing across her skin as it bakes her. It’s an itch. An itch she cannot and will never be able to scratch.

The light spreads to the floor in front of her, flashing on and off, making it difficult for her to play without being distracted by its flicker. Her cooked anger begins to boil. Not only is she alone, but the only other animated thing in this room is that sickening white light.

Foolishly, she looks up, forgetting that she is now seated directly beneath it, and is painfully surprised. She almost screams, the stamp of light blinding her even after she looks away, but she is able to hold back the sound in a muffled squeal. She covers her eyes with her arms, curling over and burying her head in her lap. The backs of her lids are bright and burning. She presses into them with the palms of her hands to soothe the discomfort.

Her boiling anger overflows into her throat.

Even after the burning stops, she remains with her head in her lap. The darkness feels cool against her eyes, though she can still see traces of light seared into the backs of her lids. Blazing spots that follow her irises wherever they go. It hurts to see, but it is better than looking at that white light again.

Warm tears wet her legs. She cries, trying not to make a sound—she doesn’t want Daddy to know. Her body convulses from forcing back the wails begging to burst from the top of her throat. She chokes on her own screams and swallows, shedding tears until there are no more tears left in her to shed.

When she is done crying, she stands and wipes her face of snot with the backs of her hands. She re-collects herself, calming her whimpers and palpitating chest, and grits her teeth.

The boiling anger has turned into steam and risen.

She glares up at the lightbulb and plucks the lollipop stem from her mouth. Her hands are curled into tight fists, knuckles impossibly white, tendons bulging. She is determined to put an end to the flickering white light. She jumps toward it, swinging at it with the lollipop stem like a maniac writhing for sanity. But this maniac never reaches sanity. Not even close. She is far too small and it is far too high.

Staring too fixedly at the light for so long has only blinded her more. She collapses to the concrete floor in defeat. The backs of her lids are on fire, marking her sight with bright spots of failure. Her eyes melt into puddles that leak back into her skull. She feels humiliated. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot win against it. It will always flicker, never allowing her eyes a bit of rest, taunting her with the emptiness of her room, showing her just how alone she truly is.