A little girl sits in the corner, her knees drawn up tight towards her, the polished wood floor hard and unyielding against her resting body. The dust swirls around her as the draught whistles through the window, and she shivers as she holds her doll close to her chest. She whispers to her best friend, her tiny hands clutching at the plastic limbs tightly, the wiry yellow hair weaving its way through her fingers. As she whispers, she pulls the doll away ever so slightly so she can find comfort in her friend's face. Her voice carries cautiously across the night air, but her friend shows no recognition as she stares back, her lids lolling back and forth across the stark whiteness of the plastic eyes while the little girl's hands tremble.

The bed sits beneath the window, the mattress wrapped in its starched sheets as perfectly as when it was first made. The pillows rest, their welcoming size almost talking to her as she huddles in the corner of her bedroom, their softness tempting to her tired head. The doll continues to stare back at her as the little girl's eyes wander around the room. From here she can see the fluff under the dressing table as it dances aimlessly around an old toy teapot and a broken cup. She watches it a while, mesmerised by its movement, until something jolts her from her stillness.

Her tiny ears are like radar now, and she hears the door to the living room close. She tries to count the steps the heavy feet take as they climb the stairs, but being so young, the numbers get muddled quickly, so instead she huddles tighter into the corner and waits. She whispers to her doll again, only this time with some urgency. Her best friend shakes in her hands and blinks almost in agreement with her, and the little girl pulls her close to her chest once more.

Her eyes clamp shut as her bedroom door creeks open slowly. She can sense the movement in her bedroom but she doesn't dare open her eyes. If she stays like this maybe this time he won't notice her there in the corner. If she can't see him, maybe, just maybe, he won't be able to see her, either.

The dense blackness behind her eyes illuminates slightly as he turns on her bedside lamp. He wants to know why she's sitting over there in the dark, with only the soft light of the moon for vision, but she doesn't tell him. She still has her eyes closed tightly, but the doll has stopped shaking. She knows there would only be more questions if he noticed her trembling without good reason.

His soft voice carries across the room, calming her, reassuring her that everything's okay, beckoning her over to him. She cautiously opens her eyes and looks at the hairbrush in his hand. He just wants to brush her blonde curls before she goes to bed. He only wants to make her look beautiful for her dreams, he tells her.

Slowly, she rises to her feet, her hands still clutching her doll tightly. In the softness of the light she looks angelic, with more innocence than this world has ever seen. He doesn't look in her eyes. He doesn't want to see the truth.

Her tiny feet shuffle across the room towards him, and she stops where he sits. Her body tenses as his large hands rest on her arms, and he turns her round gently. With every soft stroke the brush takes through her hair, she begins to relax. She doesn't even notice her mum stood watching from the doorway until her beautiful voice joins his, and they hum a simple tune together to let her know everything's okay. It comforts her to know her mother is there, too, and finally she sighs, letting her tiredness overcome her.

The humming stops and she watches her mum as she blows her a kiss goodnight, and with eyes lowered, she turns away and closes the bedroom door behind her. The little girl sees it every time, but she's never told her. As much as she always tries to hide it, she never fails to see the sorrow in her mother's eyes.

The brush continues to glide through her soft hair, and she slowly tenses with every stroke as it becomes a little harder. She wants to tell him it hurts, but she daren't. Instead she lets the tears form in her eyes, her bottom lip trembling while she hangs onto her doll even tighter than before. The brush drops to the floor and she feels his fingers weave their way through her curls. Her eyes clamp shut with the pain as he takes a tight hold of her hair and pulls down firmly. All the while she tries not to make a noise, desperate to keep the pain and fear inside. She daren't think of what will happen if she doesn't.

Harder and harder he pulls, her head dropping back to reveal her tear-stained face to him. Still her eyes remain closed, and still she makes no sound. Her knuckles almost glow white with the grip she has on her doll, and her fingers throb with the pressure. But she doesn't notice. With every passing second she becomes more and more senseless. He turns her back round to face him, his fingers still locked around her hair, and gradually her body turns numb. It's the only way she can survive.

He pulls her closer towards him, and he hums the same tune he did earlier, only this time it's haunting, menacing, so she blocks it out. Every sense is now shut down, locked away, because it's easier to feel nothing than to make the pain last. If he looked in her eyes now he wouldn't see fear, anger, hurt or sadness, he'd know he was looking into a shell. But he doesn't look. He never has.

As her body shuts down, the fear releases its hold on her and her fingers loosen on her best friend. Slowly the doll slips from her fingers and drops to the floor by their feet. One last tear falls to the hard wooden boards and lands beside it. Her best friend's eyelids rock back and forth a few times as they look upon the little girl and her father, and as the shell of a child disappears from view the doll's eyes slowly come to a close.

Copyright © K Wakeman