She is young. But not so young that there aren’t ages she would go back to. She tries to be good but always waits to fall short. Mostly she feels guilt where there should be anger. But she is angry, so angry her frame aches with it. Her teeth ground and gnashed to nothing, her joints pulled to weather bones from the strain of being wrenched between containment of the rage and the terror and the guilt of wanting to release it. She wishes to be anywhere but where she is but couldn’t say where it is she’d rather be.