Wash Me Away

 

Doll clutched in trembling fingers, the child stared mournfully out the window of her tiny room. It was baren save for her bed and herself. Her tiny dress barely covering the scrapes on her knees as she wished for the rain to pelt hard enough against the glass to break in and wash her away and cleanse her as if she was in the sea. But the storm would never come. Just the shadow of the dead man still clawing at her blood stained feet. For the doll was not actually a doll but a knife that had ended everything.