The Fire. Work.

Hiding under the kitchen sink seemed like a good idea at the time, but then again, I guess if I were a murderer, I would have thought of that before most other places. Or maybe the basement or the hallway closet--or any of the places Dr. Seuss fancied for only his interesting bodies--and his interested parties.

At the time, I thought I was smarter than him, that each day in this hell, I would find a way to be the evasive little girl I had been before he pulled up in the car. It was my hopscotch skills that got to him. I think. I thought too much was the conclusion that I had come to while confined to these parts. It was easy to do that with it being so dark in here.

It smelled like chemicals. They were in my nostrils and in my mouth--and my throat--and I was sure to die within hours---if I didn't figure out a way to break these chains. But what I couldn't escape was these thoughts. They were running like a river. I wondered if I had seen my brother for the last time. Did I say what I needed to say? Of course not. Who punished him? Maybe if I could just talk to that person for a minute, we could all come to an agreement.

Or I could just start a fire and create a diversion. I could do that very easily, just as easily as I learned to derail a bedtime. It wasn't necessarily smarter but it sure was faster.

But thoughts led to questions--and questions led to ideas--and ideas led to a bruising.

And suddenly, the sun was setting on another day.

Another hash mark on the wall.

And I just needed to keep my eyes shut and sink in, ever so slightly---

to the black and the blue.