She curled herself up into a tight, tiny ball, trying desperately to hide from the cruelty and harshness of life, like a child who had lost her mother. Dark, grungy hair encircled her form, as if it were a damp, dirty mop being hung out to dry.

Listening, trying to block out the echoing shouts that rang in her ears, like the aftershock of hearing a loud chime. Her mother was screaming again, spasmodically.

“No…” her mind moaned as she covered her ears in a weak, futile attempt to block out the sounds of shouts and yells.

“Ring around the rosy,” she sang quietly to herself, hoping hopelessly that she wouldn’t hear her mother and father over her own small, lone voice. The one, small utterance sounded shallow, hollow to her own ears, like an old forgotten lullaby in an empty attic full of dust.

“Pocket full of posies,” her voice echoed back to her, hauntingly, creepy. The shouts and screams grew louder, like a crescendo reaching its peak.

“Ashes, ashes…” There was a deafening thud, a shuddering scream, then, silence, that stretched on like a barren wasteland, seeming almost more overbearing and powerful than the once resounding yells.

“We all fall down…”