Abandoned

28

Sienna was struggling.

And no one seemed to understand just how much.

She had awoken groggy and warm from her nap, that strange softness still wrapped around her like a dream. In that twilight moment, she'd reached instinctively—arms out, expectant—for the gentle hum of a lullaby voice, for the familiar vanilla scent of the lotion Zareya used, for the arms that always came when everything felt too loud.

But the room was quiet. Too quiet. The corner chair was empty.

She blinked. Waited.

Any minute now.

The door finally opened. Sienna's arms lifted before her mind caught up, a reflex rooted in trust.

But it wasn't Zareya.

It was the lady with the bunny—and the funny doctor who talked too fast—and someone new. A stranger.

Her arms froze mid-air.

Where was Zareya?

Sienna yanked her elephant in front of her face, the battered gray plush shielding her. Her other arm clutched her bear and bunny tighter, knuckles whitening. She didn't blink. She didn't breathe.

"Hey, Sienna," the social worker said, her voice coated in a brightness too sharp, too loud. "We've got a new friend for you to meet. This is Charlotte. She's going to spend some time with you, okay?"

Silence.

They didn't expect a spoken answer. But Sienna's stillness was an answer in itself. Her back had gone stiff, her shoulders pulled up like armor.

Charlotte knelt slowly, her voice soft. "Hello, Sienna. Who's that you've got there?"

Her hand extended toward the elephant, light and casual.

Sienna jolted back so hard her head bumped the wall.

Her eyes locked on the hand. Open. Too open. Too much like before.

The bad. The danger. The past.

She couldn't breathe. The noise in her head swelled like crashing waves, too fast, too loud, too much. Her world shrank to that one hand and the empty chair in the corner.

Where is she? Where is Zareya?

Sienna screamed.

A raw, guttural sound ripped from her chest like it had claws. Her tiny fists thrashed at the bed, her legs kicking wildly. Her voice cracked from the force, but she didn't stop. Couldn't. She wanted to disappear or for everyone else to.

The adults tried to soothe her. Soft words. Toys. Even the bunny.

Nothing touched her.

Eventually, they left.

She was too worked up. She needed space.

Sienna stayed curled in the corner of the bed for a long while, shaking, her elephant soaked in tears. When the room was silent again, she slid down and padded across the floor with slow, cautious steps. She climbed onto the little fold-out bed tucked in the corner—the one that had always smelled like lavender and faint hand sanitizer. Like her.

She curled into the pillow, pressing her face into the fading warmth. It wasn't the same. But it was all she had.

She would come back. She had to. Right?

The days that followed weren't kind.

Sienna stopped speaking. Even her echoed words—the ones she had worked so hard to find—were gone.

She wouldn't eat. She flinched when approached. She hissed and clawed and bit at the nurses who tried to help her bathe or dress. She stopped sleeping altogether.

Her eyes dulled. Her movements slowed.

She didn't look up for Officer Tage's gentle knock-knock games, or reach for the bunny toy the social worker always brought.
Dr. Waters's silly hats didn't earn a single twitch of a smile.

Sienna sat. Curled. Waiting.

Longing.

Her world had been Zareya.

And without her, nothing made sense.

**************************************************

The soft click of a laptop closing broke the silence in the dimly lit room. Around the table sat five professionals: Dr. Michael Harrison, Chief of Psychology Services; Laila Aaziz, the lead social worker; Officer Leo from child protection services; Dr. Waters, the hospital pediatrician; and Charlotte, the newly assigned therapist.

Everyone looked tired, the kind of tired that came not from lack of sleep but from the emotional weight of a child's suffering.

Dr.Harrison cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of him. "Thank you all for making time on such short notice. Sienna's regression over the past few days is deeply concerning. I think we're all in agreement that the transition following Zareya's removal hasn't gone as we'd hoped."

There were a few quiet nods.

"She's not eating. She's not engaging. She's resisting care and lashing out. We knew this might be difficult," Laila said softly, glancing at Charlotte, "but I don't think anyone anticipated this level of emotional shutdown."

Charlotte looked visibly affected. "I approached her gently. No pressure. But she wouldn't even look at me. The fear in her eyes—it wasn't just confusion. It was grief. That kind of attachment... it doesn't just dissolve when we say it has to."

Dr. Waters added, "And the physical implications are mounting. She's lost a pound and a half in four days. Her sleep disruption is bordering on clinical insomnia. If we don't address this quickly, we'll see real physiological deterioration."

Leo leaned forward. "We have to consider whether separating her from Zareya—at least so suddenly—was the right call. Was it clinically necessary, or were we following protocol at the cost of progress?"

A tense silence followed.

Dr. Harrison took a slow breath. "The boundary issues were real, and we can't ignore that. But what we can do now is mitigate the fallout. Let's talk next steps—rebuilding a sense of security, reestablishing trust."

Charlotte nodded. "I'd like to start by introducing visual schedules. Predictability. Simple routines she can see and anticipate."

"She needs familiarity," Laila said. "What if we used recorded messages from Zareya? Something short, daily. Just a reminder that she hasn't disappeared."

Dr. Harrison looked thoughtful. "We'll need to approve the content, but I support that. And small comfort items—something of Zareya's? A scarf, or a book they shared?"

"I'd also like to assign only two consistent staff members to her care for the time being," Dr. Waters suggested. "Too many new faces are compounding the issue."

"And we implement play therapy immediately," Charlotte said. "Not structured. Just presence. Let her show us what she's holding inside."

"Agreed," said Dr. Harrison. "And I want her progress reviewed every 72 hours for the next two weeks. We'll monitor for signs of reconnection, even if they're small."

Leo folded his arms, watching the group. "We owe it to her to get this right."

Everyone nodded.

Dr. Harrison's voice softened. "We're not just treating a case. We're trying to rebuild something she's lost. Let's move carefully—and together."