The Faces

There’s a little girl in my heart who seems to sing the same song of plea.

 She is followed by the scary things with distorted faces.

She cries when they push her to the ground and pull her ponytail. They kick her sides until she is bruised and they offer her to the sick minded humans who roam the streets. When she screams for help, they drag her by the legs and laugh while she flails her arms.

She is beaten and broken and humiliated when the faces take on the bodies of the humans to rape her of her innocence. There is nothing left inside of the girl. There are no emotions worth showing, no cries that seem to help.

When people feel pity for her, they stand on the other side of the street and whisper to her about a man who could change it all. They claim that they work for him and will tell him all about her. The girl often wonders what is taking him so long. They see her tattered clothes and dirty face, but only throw her a needle and some thread to sew together an outfit. She sees the faces behind them too.

They don’t tell the man about her. They forget. She grows up walking the allies with the faces kicking her back. In a strange way, she is used to living this way. It’s normal. Everyone else says so.

But then he comes. There are no faces behind him. He is brilliant and has a white dress in his hand just for her. She hears his voice demand that they let her go. The faces step back and grin a decaying crooked, evil smile.

“She is free to leave us if she pleases.”

The man is warm. She can feel the heat radiating off of him. So close to freedom.

“Forgive me sir, but this is all I know.” She whispers, then turns to walk away, whistling that same song of plea.