The floorboards creaked, a sound that always preceded the dread. Small hands, clenched into fists beneath thin sheets, trembled. Sleep, a distant comfort, was shattered by the knowledge of what would soon come. A tiny figure, curled tight, lay rigid, every muscle anticipating the violation. No sound escaped the room, save for the shallow, rapid breaths of a soul trapped in a silent prison. Words were useless, a dangerous luxury denied. Only the tremor in the body, the frantic beating of a heart too young to know such fear, spoke of the torment within. The darkness held no comfort, only the looming shadow of the one who brought terror. Alone, utterly alone, the small form wept, tears tracing silent paths down pale cheeks, lost in the vast, indifferent night. Each sob was a whispered plea, a cry swallowed by the suffocating silence. Years crawled by, marked by the invisible scars that etched themselves deeper than any blade. The body grew, but the spirit remained fractured, a shattered mirror reflecting a distorted image of self. How does one mend a broken soul, a spirit ravaged by unseen wounds? The world outside was a confusing maze, a place where emotions surged and crashed like a violent sea. The familiar patterns of fear and anger surfaced without warning, outbursts that left the grown figure bewildered and ashamed. A desperate, unspoken question hung in the air: Does anyone see me? Does anyone care? The weight of the past pressed down, a suffocating blanket of pain and doubt. A silent scream echoed in the empty spaces of the mind, a desperate, anguished plea. "Please," it whispered, a broken prayer to a silent sky, "help me."