He is hungry.

CHAPTER V

She is alone.

The room is once again empty and she once again has to deal with the loneliness, although she feels better primed for it now that her daddy has fixed her. The light no longer strains her eyes, her dress is no longer dirty, and the wounds on her upper arm and finger no longer hurt. In fact, the cut on her upper arm has already healed completely, pure white skin left in its cure.

She doesn’t know at what point in her sleep her daddy left her—he rarely ever stays until she wakes—but he has been gone for a while now. Long enough for her to have taken several naps. Long enough for her to have forgotten what he feels like. She knows he will return—he always does; it is just a matter of when.

So she waits. She waits and she thinks of him and it hurts her stomach when she thinks of him so she tries to distract herself. But despite the hurt, she can’t help but wonder when he will return. It could be any moment now that the lock snaps and he enters. The anticipation keeps her on edge, her eyes magnetically drawn to the metal door. Sometimes she doesn’t even realize she is looking at the door until she falls out of that blurred zone where her mind becomes a blank, empty space. Then she returns to reality, the metal appearing in clear straight lines before her rather than in blotches of silver and gray.

The part of her that no longer wants to feel the pain of missing her daddy begs for a distraction. It begs for her to take her mind off him so that the tugging will stop itching her insides. Stop making her feel like something is crawling around inside of her. If she doesn’t force herself to turn away, who knows how long she will let the tugging hurt her stomach while she stares at nothing?

If the door doesn’t move . . . if it does nothing for long enough . . . does it become nothing? Does it become nothing like the stuffed blue dog?

She tears her eyes away from the door and looks down at her dress instead, feeling the outline of every seam. She thinks about how beautiful the dress is and how comfortably it drapes over her body. How its smell doesn’t make her nose scrunch and how flawlessly white it is. It reminds her of her daddy’s skin . . .

Her stomach protests and she shakes her head, refocusing her thoughts.

It really is beautiful.

When she grows tired of studying the details, she stands and twirls, trying to see how high she can make the skirt fly. She runs around the room, jumping and laughing when her skirt flies high enough to encase her in a momentary cocoon, her bare thighs feeling the rush of a self-made breeze.

“Daddy, Daddy! Do you see me? Look how high I can jump!” she giggles out with glee.