The Little Girl

The Little Girl's Origins - Hidden away in a crawlspace lies her memories, fractured, damaged, no longer in use. A tall man once visited her when all the lights were off. Windows barricaded, outside people screaming for their loved ones. Curtains were closed always, she never had a moment where she could ask about the outside world. For the outside world was a journey inside her own mind.

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2. CH. 2


A/N - Everything should now be easier to understand. Hopefully, less confusing to you as a reader. If you happen to find any grammatical errors (Please report them to me @3 SECOND LUKE) - Huge thanks to my true best friend who can't be replaced; Miss G (My love of my life) ! C:

Repetition is a parasite, it lives on the inside of you without leaving behind a trace. It’s a continuous pattern that never changes. The Little Girl would awaken every so often to her father’s words. He never said ‘goodnight’ to her this time, it was almost as if his words were fading away. Hopeful, she remained; the loneliness reminded her of a drawing that her mother put up on the refrigerator, a shaded figure that stood alone in the middle of the dark. Above a winged beast that stood frozen in time with its eyes following the shadow. Something doesn’t make sense, the words she just heard… they weren’t real.

 

The Winged Beast - 1952


“Shallowness is what I left behind for you. It’s a gift to our daughter, she may not be pretty, but I know better than anyone in this room that she has a heart of gold. The wings, the eyes, I see it all in my dreams. Sometimes we just need to look a little closer.”

Tiny miniature figurines would dance in a circle on their own; loneliness is a pattern that never changes for them. Her father unknown to the residents outside was a wealthy man who faced many consequences for his past actions. His wife was a dancing figure, she’d never stop repeating the same dance. The moves she would make were desirable, the changes she would provide for her family were questionable. Her father knew that if he was to change, he would need to go back to the South. However, this was an impossible flight for such a noble bird. He was known as a winged tormentor to an elderly couple. The man of the house would bellow his words until the roof would collapse in on itself.

The Little Girl had no memories; short or long, they were adrift. She had a clearer image of her father standing in the heavy rain. Perched on the doorstep with a thick raincoat along with a child that would never speak beside him. This was not a memory, it was more of a dream she once had. Sleeping alone can do that to you, it can bring up wishes, desires, and even the most tormented of imagery. The wings she once had were just that, unbelievable flight. The ability to fly would present itself in time, but she didn’t know this. Her father knew that it was her wings that would carry them to ascend from the emptiness below.

Her mother had little faith in such dreams, always drawing pictrures like a child. Her daughter, The Little Girl who had a name. The Winged Beast was a title that once spoke of her name, and her father was only around the corner of the pathway that led right towards the park. “Sara, the name that was given to her by a taller figure.” Addressing her as this name was a rare sight to ever see. Her father would give her nicknames, and her mother had no reason to call her anything besides, “little,” this was a strange trait of hers where she would never name her daughter. Her father kept close to the mines which was a location that would never be spoken of at the dining table.

While Sara’s mother was cleaning the dishes, some plates were grimy, cutlery with smears of blood on the knives. The window to the outside world stood in front of her crooked smile. How it twisted to the moonlight above, the thoughts danced around in her mind without ever falling over. The bright stars were above the rooftops, she would have to bend her neck all the way round an angle of odd velocity. Even if she were to somehow become an abomination above all, she would seize to exist after the freak accident that would follow.

Sara stood around the corner, the exact angle that had a similar velocity to her mother’s private space. Speed was a driving force that would be required to escape her father’s clutches. She had always believed that her father was the one to be afraid of. The unfortunate truth was just around the corner; her deranged mother who would weep through many nights. Screaming, moaning, it would all come out eventually. Sara could never sleep due to the sounds that she would have to listen to every night. Her father’s lullabies were rarer than her mother’s. They would both keep up her awake not even one would allow her to rest in peace.

“Sara, honey, it’s your father’s radio again. It’s playing up, always causing noise.” Her innocent voice was the face to the hidden disgust on the frontline.

Sara whispered, she didn’t dare to make noise around her mother. “I-It’s just father’s radio, he doesn’t like it any other way. Loud is all he knows, mother.”

That twisted grin that she could only wish to catch glimpse of in a reflection of a window. This was impossible, the windows were boarded up weeks ago. Her father blames it on insecurity, always saying that the Blood Moon Owl would awaken from its slumber. He was full of many stories like this one; a freakish arachnid that would consume other little girls, a shadow that would watch you die. The latter was a story he would tell himself whenever he was to be reminded of the past events.

“Noise from your father is all I ever hear… I would like one night alone with us as a family, where we can actually talk as a civil, approachable, respected, family.” Her tone grew more towards annoyed.

Sara took her first step into the private space that her mother would always keep to herself. Even her father would never go in there while mother faced the opposite way. He told Sara of stories about how he met her mother. It would always end the same way; the beginning was changing every night he spoke of her. It started off with the basic;

‘I met her while I was fighting for the world.’ Then it changed to, ‘I met her while I was in hospital, hospitalised for months on end.’

The final story that she heard was one that didn’t even mention him. ‘He met her when she was dying, I know, it’s crazy to think that death is how we met. But she knows him better than I do.’

“Don’t be afraid to approach your own mother. She is delighted to see you up and out of bed. I was beginning to worry about you, darling.”

Sara had taken a step backwards, she remained calm as she replied with a brave face. “I think father should be here. He knows how to turn the radio off.”

Her mother would still not face her own daughter, a foggy image of her on the window was a mere footprint of a person. The only print that would prove she was real, a reflection that was nowhere near clear to anyone who would be unfortunate enough to see it up close. “Nonsense, your father is not coming back. He isn’t going to be back for a long time. You know as well as I do, dear. He isn’t a man of his word, he goes off looking for free birds.”

“Mother! That’s not true, he goes out to get you flowers.” Sara could not hold back her aggravation. Any mention of her father in a different light would cause her grief.

“Well, you better tell him when he gets back that life is too short to be searching for other kinds of love.” Her voice gentle, it was approachable but just a fake emotion that carried the belief of it to a more gullible state.

Sara left her mother as the sound of cutlery rattled from behind her. Thinking back to the room, her memories of it were more clearer; torn curtains, a bloodied handprint left on the table, a broken chair lay in pieces near several broken ornaments. The most tragic of all was the family portrait smeared in a violent manner. The portrait's shattered glass was forming the shattered memories that she had to put back together piece by piece.

The noise levels of her father’s radio carried forwards a more static sound. A slight disturbance, Sara dared not to run towards it. Instead of approaching the radio, she held onto her stuffed bear that was missing several limbs. Cuddling it with such tightness that if it was a real living creature- there’s no way it would ever be able to breathe. Buttons were the cheap decoration on the sugar-coated gift from her parents. Knowing that deep down this teddy bear was once loved by her mother, it was a gift from her as her father would not approve of such a child-like doll.

Her mother’s voice crept through the crawlspace, the floorboards carried the chill to her bedside. “I’m really sorry about earlier, she didn’t know any better. Your teddy bear will keep you safe, I got it for you before I let her ever lay her hands on you.” – “Don’t go to sleep just yet, your father wishes to speak to you.”

Every night it would be the same, a creepy voice followed by the static that had no ending. Its disturbance continued for all hours that were needed for sleep. Eyes wide open, there is no way on Earth that she would be able to ever get a full night’s rest. Awaiting her father as the darkness sunk deeper into her room, the static from the radio continued. Her mother’s words still haunting her from within her own mind. The voice is the creepiest part, it lingers like the rotting corpse that her father spoke about by accident during a heart-to-heart conversation a few years back.

Left alone in the dark, Sara caught a glimpse of the tall figure standing in the corner of her room. It would just sit and watch her, the shadows around the room would approach her petrified self for a few minutes in between any time that she spent in this room. Just as she had the feeling of the tall creature standing behind her, the door opened letting in some light from the dying lamp outside. Standing up looking worse for wear, her father approached her bedside with his eyes oozing out of his face.

“Now, now, shush, don’t say a word.” Her father’s hand covered her mouth, she could not speak. Even by the sheer chance of the hand not being used to silence her; she would still not dare to speak.

“I don’t say this often, dear, my sweet Sara.” His voice sunk into the darkness below. “I love you, I don’t want you in harms way. I’d never forgive myself if I was to find you hanging in this room on your own.”

Sara’s mind now full of thoughts that she believed would never leave her alone. Her thoughts were the only friends she had, they may be negative to her as some positives may exist somewhere else. The sad truth was that her emotions; feelings, the thoughts dancing around her were just friends with make-believe bodies. If sleep felt impossible to her, she would spend it talking to the shadows on her walls. Her father never questioned her thoughts, he once even sat in the same room with her while she spoke to the nothingness.

“You see, if I were to put you up for that- I wouldn’t be your father, would I? I’d be a monster to you. And that’s fine by me, your mother doesn’t have much faith in us anyways.” The monster was already there, it was in the room with her waiting in silence. “Shush, don’t say a word. I told you not to talk, just listen to what your father has to say to you.”

Sara nodded, her heart sunk deeper trying to break a way into her stomach. Her imagination ran wild with her wishing that her young heart would just end melting in acid. “No, no, no, wait a second. I should show you what I want to tell you instead. That way I can be sure you were paying attention to me.” Her father said.

Sara gulped, her hands froze by her sides. Her father stood up pulling her by her left wrist. Holding on with such a strong force, she could not break free from her father’s grip. The radio’s static interference started to interfere with her mind. It continued to break away the words that were being repeated in her head. ‘It was a gift from me, your father would never approve of such a gift.’ These words continued to fade away, they returned more screechy.

“Now, I’ve got your attention, right?” Sara nodded in response. “Good. I didn’t want to have to explain myself again, I made it clear to you last time that tonight would be my time to show you.”

Dragging her to the corner of the room with her heart racing through an impossible track to finish. His voice started to become screechy, broken in half. As he dragged her further, it started to sound disjointed, static overtaking his words. “I’m sorry you have to see this, words don’t cut it as well as showing you. You see, your mother never approved of such a gift.”

As the curtain at the corner of the room was torn away, it revealed the figure that she had seen before. A creature standing tall, a shadowy puppet of nightmares. It’s shadow-like presence was enough to make her squeal; the eyes were hollow, but she could not shake the image of the owl eyes that watched over her from the beginning of stepping foot into what was called: ‘Her own room’, but it never felt like hers. There was always something hanging over her that changed the perspective on the theme of the room. Like broken dolls, cameras that were smashed into pieces. Wooden sculptures that were according to her mother; father’s gifts, a wooden horse he once crafted in his childhood. The dolls were gifts too, taken from an orphanage as thank-you presents for helping around the place.

“Wake up, dear, wake up, I’m afraid we have a sleepyhead.”

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