A little girl, no more than ten years old, examined herself in the mirror. She had long reddish brown curls tied up in a sloppy, casual bun, with occasional bangs flowing down her young rosy cheeks, and a little pointy nose which matched her sharp personality. Her eyes, usually sparkling, were a dull green, red from crying.

Slowly, she picked up a handkerchief from the sink and held it up to her nose, to keep it from bleeding. Her face had a bruise on it, just starting to turn black and blue. Her casual bun had been pulled into random strands of pain.

She slowly slunk to the floor, and silenced her muffled sobs and rapid shallow breathing to listen to what was happening downstairs. There were three voices, an old wise one, a deep menacing one, and a high gentle voice.

This voice, a loving voice, who brought comfort to her in times of fear, and comfort in times of sadness, remained quiet as the two menâs voice traded furious remarks. Their argument came to a climax, and eventually stopped.

The girl began to breathe normally, but was silenced once again by a thud that rang throughout the house. Then came a shriek of anger mixed with fear as she heard the old voice moan in pain.

Next, she heard light footsteps as the young woman ran over to the pain stricken old man, who remained moaning and writhing in pain. She began to soothe him, but was struck by the man whoâs eyes were cold and emotionless. The girl heard many more strikes, shrieks of pain, and suddenly, nothing at all.

The girl became intensely filled with anger, and began seething with a mixture with pain, malice, and hatred. She imagined the man burning in his conscience, burning in fire of hatred, of love, of impetuosity and pain. The feelings became more and more fervent until she heard a deep scream and a door swing, and pattering footsteps on the cold spring ground.

The footsteps were never to be heard again, only leaving one burning memory in the girlâs brain, a man, searing with anger, clutching his face in pain and agony.

She crept down stairs, to see her motherâs limp body, not breathing, not moving, not living. She looked at her grandfather, unconscious, lying on the floor in a puddle of blood. She looked at her mother and then her grandfather once again, beginning to stir, and began to sob uncontrollably, until she was too tired to cry anymore. She fell into a corner, where she remained shuddering for the rest of the evening.

The man, who had tortured her, her mother, and her motherâs father, was never coming back, and she would never forgive him·. Never··