Mar

She shivered, lying on the floor. There were so many bad memories here that she usually just tried to forget them all. Daddy was right to punish her for being so stupid; she must be stupid and bad, else why would so many bad things happen to her? She was being bad right now, just by talking to this man. Even if he was nice, and she didn't know why it was wrong to just talk to him, she knew it was.

Treacherously, her feet do not pick her up to flee, to confess her wrongdoing or even try to conceal it (that never worked, Daddy always knew when she lied, but sometimes she was afraid enough that she tried anyway). Instead, she sits up a little, staring. "My mommy used to sing that to me," she confides quietly, eyes round. She thought that was right. She didn't actually remember anything more than the tune and a sense of comfort and happiness, but the words did remind her of... something...

Then she realized what being wet meant, and saw the overturned bucket. That was bad! She had to clean that up, before anybody saw her. Maybe they would think she was supposed to be cleaning here. No, there was too much of a mess—and Daddy would notice when she wasn't back when she was supposed to be... if he hadn't already...

Mar begins trying to clean up some of the spill, working the brush as if it were a rag that could soak up some of the reddish water. It wouldn't work, she needed a mop. And she was wet. There wasn't any way out of it—when they found her, she was going to be punished. "No, I'm not," she half-moans, half-whimpers, "I'm not all right. I'm not supposed to spill, I'm not supposed to mess up. I'm not supposed to talk with you, Daddy doesn't like it." But she was talking with him anyway. It felt like it helped a little to talk to somebody who didn't have to hurt her, and if she was going to be punished anyway, it didn't matter as much.