Tears stream down the unconscious child’s cheeks,
as her hair,
matted with dried blood,
flows gently in the harsh winter air.
Her mother’s arms,
loosely wrapped around the girl’s small frame,
are shaking with fear.
Fear,
not for the innocence bleeding in her hands,
but for herself,
and her own clear conscience.
The destination grows nearer,
as does the child’s safety.
When,
at last,
the mother walks in.
Hesitantly,
she hands the child,
her own flesh and blood,
blood that is now stained onto her hands, clothing, wall,
to a nurse.
The events that follow are vague,
as is what had occurred before.
Still, the truth is hidden in the family,
whispers and glances prove to be evidence,
and tears,
fact through the fiction.
All that is known will be revealed through time,
but, until then,
the child shall live her life without thoughts of her past.
Without the torment of not knowing the truth.
Blissfully unaware.
Ann Richards
9th