Listen

                It is obvious that the room belongs to a cat. A litter box sits in one corner, a plush bed in another, and a large bag of kitty food leans up against a wall. The resident, a sizable orange tom, bats playfully at the feathers and bells dangling from the doorknob. In the quiet air the bells sing clear but soon enough the cat grows tired of the game and slinks lazily across the tile with long exaggerated movements. Curiosity alive in his eyes, the tom pops his paws up on the edge of the bathtub and stretches so that he can be tall enough to peer over. With a quick movement he swipes at the steady surface of the water. Droplets fly, several striking his pelt, and the tom jerks away as though scalded.

                A fresh wave sloshes above the sides of the tub, further assaulting the unfortunate cat, as a girl's head breaks the surface of the water. Her breath comes in rapid gasps, frantically drawing oxygen into her deprived lungs. She pushes wet cords of hair away from her face and looks around with wide eyes. It was only the cat. Her breathing slows to a normal rate and she slumps against the side of the tub with her cheek pressed to the cool, porcelain edge. In the pit of her belly she feels regret that she allowed the cat to startle her so. Perhaps next time she'll be able to keep her head.

               Slowly she rises and steps over the edge of the tub. Water slides easily down the contours of her body, dripping onto the bathmat beneath her feet. While the water drains away, she stands as a statue and watches it flow away. She ignores the fact that she is shivering against the cold air on her damp skin. Only when the last of the water has gurgled down the pipes does she step away to grab a towel. Before she does so her eyes land on the mirror hung upon the door. In the dim light she can only make out the bare outlines of her body, but even that disgusts her.

             She rips her eyes away from that reflection and reaches out for a towel to draw around her. The air seems to be growing colder by the minute and the towel does little to help, but it is better than nothing. The girl begins to scrub vigorously at her skin, rubbing away the water and bringing color back to her skin in the process. Then she squeezes water from her hair, hearing it drip loudly on the tile. Finally, she discards the towel and slips into a set of pajamas. Now she can sleep and prepare to face yet another day.

          The orange tom cat weaves between her calves, begging to be pet. She reaches down to scratch behind his ears briefly, but then she must leave. Her hand twists the brass knob and she steps out into the hallway. To the right she hears a peal of laughter, but her destination lies to the left. Though she wonders at what might have induced such amusement, it is not in her future to find out. Instead she turns, opens another door, and shuts herself in her bedroom.

              Her room is the definition of darkness. Black curtains are drawn tight to the very edges of the windows, keeping out the moon and stars. The only light emanates from the sliver of space beneath the door. She doesn't prefer it this way, but keeps it just the same. In the dark, one is free—or doomed—to become lost in thought. The girl's thoughts are frightening to her but there is nothing to distract her from them. 

            She climbs carefully into her bed and huddles into the corner. Her knees are drawn tight to her chest. Her eyes gravitate toward the light. But mostly, she listens. She listens to the voices, laughter, and communication beyond her reach. She listens for hours, not moving. She listens until the voices fade away. Until the light goes out and the house goes quiet. Then she unfolds herself from the corner and stretches out. Her head rests delicately on the pillow. She closes her eyes and surrenders to sleep.