A little girl sits on her bed, clutching a baby blue blanket with tears in her eyes. Her stout legs kick up while her long hair stays put in a neat mess around her head. She does not know what she has done wrong this time, just like any other time. There's a distant yell, behind the safety of her shut door. But the voice is loud and calling her name, since she at seven years of age is the only thing that will conquer her mother's rage. There is soft padding to the door after she hops off the bed, her mother calls her name once more. She turns the doorknob and opens it to find a mess. But not a neat one, of course, it is one more out of place than anything she knows. Her tears have dried on her baby cheeks, evaporating as quick as her innocence, while the stains linger as long as her haunting memories. She walks out into the hallway of the quaint apartment, her blanket left at her door. No need for a baby blanket, anyway, when her job requires a lot of grown up responsibility. A harsh hand holds her arm in place, dragging her down the hall. There is a bottle here and there, and she is puzzled by how such out of place things could end up in their out of place places. The yelling continues for a moment, and she turns to see what exactly her mother is talking about. A pencil sits on the table, unsharpened. She must sharpen it with a knife if she ever wants to do her grueling second grade homework. A small pile of clothes rest on the coffee table, once folded. Now they are strewn aimlessly like her mother's words, she must pick them up, she must clean her room, she must put her clothes away. She cannot sit on her ass all day, she needs to help around the house, what's going to happen when her mother isn't there anymore? Who's going to do her goddamn laundry when her mother is dead? So she picks them up and accidentally bumps her elbow on the coffee table, but her mother makes her wear long sleeves for the next week anyway. Just in case, she says. The little girl returns to her room with the pile of clothes, her mother still yelling, her voice breaking down into smaller matter. Crying is something the little girl must keep in so that her mother can use her tears and cry her grown up heart out. Grown ups must have more things to cry about. Pain, and heartache, and money, of course, even though it seems like money is easy to get for now. Grown ups must take the bearing and the burden of raising a family, especially with two daughters. Her mother knocks on her door and comes in, while she is cleaning frantically and putting her clothes away. Her little sister, who is to become the exact person their mother is some day, stays either asleep or hidden. Once she is done, her mother sits on her bed and she sits next to her. The woman begins to cry and the girl cannot do much, she is seven years old, isn't she? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, she says. She's such a blessing to her mother, her mother truly doesn't know where she came from. Her mother is so proud, so blessed to be a mom. The little girl can only smile sadly and embrace her mother as she wipes her tears.
