Dreams of Hope

So on Friday, Mary and I got very board at work and started writing a story...
"I want to go now," the child whispered into the night; and with that simply statement, she whisked her bedroom window open and started her decent towards the ground.
It wasn't long until she reached the rocky ground below, as the house was only two stories tall; the brittle weeds bit at her bare feel, forcing her to silently slip on her shoes.
With her shoes snugly in place she creeps past her parent's bedroom window and makes her way to the barn. She doesn't know what she will find when she opens those doors, only that she must open them.
It is strange, this feeling that she must open those doors; as if she is possessed by knowledge that is not her own. Arriving at the doors, she sees a slant of light through the cracks-a ruddy glow as bright as the sunrise.
She feels the light drawing her in, she feels as though it has gotten inside of her head and is mentally as well as physically drawing her to it. She doesn't know what this light is, she doesn't know where it comes from, and she doesn't know if it is good or evil. All she knows is that she wants to get as close to the light as possible.
Reaching out her small, pink hand, she shoved the door open. She is blinded by the light and steps forward only to hear a voice much like her own singing a well known song.
As she focus's on the song she realizes no one is singing outloud, the tune, melody, and words are all in her head; it is so strong inside of her that she feels she is hearing in out loud. She knows the song, but can't quite place it.
Though she is still blinded by the light, she moves further inside, she senses there is an object in front of her and as she moves closer the singing in her head grows louder.
The music is willing her, wanting her, and swaying her. She cannot resist its call. It requests, she fulfils—it charms, she dances. It is one with the feeling that guided her to this place, one with the inner walls of her being. It tells her to step, she does, draws her forward, she moves, and it calls a fluttering hand to reach out and touch the object she knows to be there but cannot see. She craves to do its bidding. Her hand moves of the seduction of free will—neither having been forced nor having been offered. She finds the object. The moment her hand clasps the small chain a sunburst explodes inside of her head, brighter than the molten heart of the earth. She whispers a name into the surrounding light and collapses unto the hay below.
As she is laying on the hay she realizes she is not unconscious, she sees the sky filled with stars through the roof of the barn and hears the music screaming through her head. She cannot get up. She feels a warm liquid running down her arm and although she feels no pain she knows that the chain she is clinging to has cut deep into her flesh. The blood pours out so fast and she has the sensation that it is being replaced with another substance though she does not know what.

As she lies there, she hears another voice in the night interrupting the sweet music; her father is screaming her name over and over again. A loud crash, a scream, then darkness.
Her eyes flicker. Everything is bright, too bright; but this is not the fiery, living brightness of the barn. It is white and dead, flatting the world around her. Everything seems wrong. She slowly, painfully, props herself up on her elbows to gather her surroundings. The white walls surround her and she notices that they are too clean, wiped of all that makes them good as well as the harmful things. She can see a corner is pealing and she knows that the paint won’t cling to these walls for too much longer.

She stares at the pealing paint; it is the only thing that seems real, the only thing that has texture and life to it. She crawls over to it and notices that she does not wince when she puts pressure on the cut hand; she sees the mark of the chain she so tightly clung to, but the wound is gone.
She stares around her at the empty white walls; the look of them is maddening. She reaches for the pealing paint and starts picking at it, pretty soon she is tearing it off in large strips. Concealed by this white is a black door with a red knob. As she stares at the door she feels her stomach twist and writhe with fear and anxiety at the thought of opening this door. But she has no other way out of this white washed room.
I could live here—I could be happy here, her inner voice pleads, It is not necessary to pass through that door! I don’t need to go there! Her protests, she knows, are useless. Gulping for breath, she puts her hand on the red knob and finds herself back in the barn. Only now the only light is from the shining sun and there is no music waltzing through her mind.
“What?” a question to no one because this place seems as dead as the one she left behind moments before.
Her mind tries valiantly to explain what had just happened to her. But she stands there, looking around trying to grasp her surroundings and understand the things she saw. She looks at her hand and still sees the mark of the chain. She stares around the barn and sees nothing more than a dusty, worn out barn. She hears her name being called once again and sees her father in the doorway
"There you are!" He sighs as his long strides eat up the distance between them. He kneels to be on par with her, "Eliza, what are you doing out here so early? You nearly scared your mother to death." Her nose wrinkles in distain as she suddenly hates the nickname. Sudden knowledge provides that though this man may be her father, the woman inside is certainly not the one who berthed her. She looks into his eyes and can feel the dirt on his soul. He has done something terrible, she suddenly knows, and he isn’t even sorry!
Though she knows that there is something terribly wrong here, she isn't sure what. She knows instinctually now that the woman she has known as her mother isn't really her mother. She suddenly can't help but wonder if she ever had a real mother, at least, in the sense of being birthed. She knows that her father has done something horrible, something terrible, but what is it he has done? What does it have to do with her? And how does it link all of them to the barn and that horrid white room? As questions echo through her mind she feels overwhelmed with these things and cannot contain her tears. Her father looks at her in a concerned way, but in a way that almost looks amused as he asks her, "What's wrong dear?"
“Nothing,” she whispers to the dirt on her knees. She is afraid. Everything is wrong, her head screams, I am wrong! You are! I feel too old. It is an odd sentiment, but the moment she thinks it she knows it is right. She is working on animal instinct and a maturity that she did not have the night she slipped through her window.
She is still young, she knows that too; only it is as if an older her is guiding her, telling her things—but not everything.
“Well, come-on then,” Her father looks more amused than ever now and she finds herself hating him for it. He takes her hand and firmly leads her toward the house.
As she approaches the house with her father she begins to feel ill, she does not want to go in there with him. She does not know him anymore and she doesn't know what he will do. She stops suddenly; it is like her feet will no longer move. Her father looks at her oddly, "Are you sure there isn't something bothering you sweetie?" He says with a sardonic grin. "Anything you'd like to share with your daddy?" The grip he holds on her hand starts tightening and she can feel the place where the chain carved her flesh. She looks around as though she is a trapped deer looking to flee. But realizing she has no where to go she looks to the ground, and whispers a barely audible "No." Although she is young her new found wisdom tells her that she will die. She decides she will not succumb to death easily, but she does not know how she will fight off her father when the time comes.

To be continued...