Under the blanket of darkness, she reveled in silence. So easy to forget the day, as the shadows slowly merged to fill each corner and crevice of the room. She could see nothing that could harm her in darkness, and hear nothing that would hurt her in silence.
The only reminder of the outside world was the occasional uninvited headlights that invaded the bedroom through the curtainless windows. If the outside reminders became too insistent, she would pull the covers over her head, sheltering her adolescent mind from what was too much to endure.
It was then she could try to sort the day. It was before she knew better than to try to implore God for empathy and reformation. It was long before she had quit wondering why she was obligated to carry such weight, before she had succumbed to just bearing it without question. She put these questions forth, to the darkness, to her God, to the guardian she clung to, and she searched her heart for answers, finding only herself and the silence of the night.
When the sun adversely rose, the familiar sounds assaulted. The refuge consumed, she was bare and exposed. She ignored her shining vulnerability, however, already looking toward the night and the absence of the desolate flow of the day. She proceeded down, toward the noise and into the lion’s den to fill another page of her life.