Always Holding Breath
The girl lies perfectly still on her thin mat in the corner of the room, the darkness of the small house pressing in around her. Every sound from the other side of the cloth hanging that serves as her door sends a jolt of fear through her body. Her entire being is focused on listening, interpreting the noises from the main living area where her uncle sits. The heavy sound of his footsteps, the gruff tone of his voice, the sharp clink of a bottle, these are the signs that tell her what kind of night it will be. She has learned to categorize the sounds, to distinguish between the normal settling of the house and the movements that signal danger. When his footsteps move toward her room, her heart hammers against her ribs, and she holds her breath, praying the footsteps will continue past. This state of high alert lasts for hours, making real sleep impossible. She drifts in and out of a shallow, restless doze, her mind never fully switching off its guard, always ready to snap back to consc...