Helplessness

                Sometimes, when she’s alone, the shadows in the room take-on dark and sinister shapes.  Any time she’s alone, the voices she hears scream and blame her for what’s happened—for what she allowed to happen.  Now that she is not alone, everything is becoming much more dangerous, much more real.
                She sits in her room, legs held tightly against her chest.  Her chin is pressed against her chest, forehead against her knees, face buried away—she’s trying to hide.  The house doesn’t provide many good hiding places.  She used to be good at hide-and-seek.  Once upon a time, she was never caught.  She could hide for hours and never be found.  Not anymore, though.  Now she’s found without anyone even trying.  THEY can find her with nothing more than a quick thought.  THEY can surprise her while she walks down the street, lunging out of alleyways and tearing her apart—from the inside out.
                THEY have been following her.  She had defeated them.  She had thought to have destroyed these shadows, these demons.  She was wrong.  She didn’t destroy them.  She only delayed them.  And in doing so, she fuelled their anger, their hunger, their desire for revenge.
                Sitting in the one corner of the house, furthest from the front door, she rocks back and forth slowly on the floor.  Her knuckles are white as she grips the legs of her jeans.  Her shoulders are stiff and sore from having been in this pose for so many hours.  Her back is burning, howling against her mind to be released from the crapped position in which it is trapped.
                Clink.  
                The sound of glass on metal.  It echoes softly through the house.  The origin of the small and nearly imperceptible sound is downstairs. 
                She didn’t hear the door open.  She didn’t hear the door close.  She didn’t hear any footsteps.  It’s THEM downstairs.  It’s THEM coming back for her. 
                She tries to scramble for the doorway.  She tries to stand.  Her body protests against the sudden jolting and stretching and fast movements. 
                Her legs tingle and prick.  They’re limp and useless.  She falls to the floor.  Her shoulder makes square and painful contact with the hardwood flooring.  Her head bounces harshly. 
                She can see them now.  The shadows are all around her.  The door is gone.  She’s trapped.
                Their voices bombard her.  She writhes on the floor, trying to escape them but unable to stand—to sit up.  She can feel their claws digging into her skin, tearing at her flesh, piercing into her muscles, and shattering her bones.
                She cries out for help.  She cries out in pain.  She cries out.               
                But no one comes.  No one ever comes.  And it is this helplessness that drives the demons to destroy her slowly.