(no subject)

It is warm when I awake. Papa must have been burning the stove because I burn with it. With a malcontent sound of disagreement, I wake, my eyes turning sharply in the darkness to locate the bedside table and perhaps my glass of water, but it is not sitting there. Carefully, I listen. The small house has always given me the awareness of my family whether by creaks of the floor or the soft breathing of my Mama as she sleeps or Papa's muttering or Ruthie's restless kicking.

I hear nothing.

It is enough to pull me to my feet. I trudge through the house with a half-waking awareness, the halls seeming cavernous around me, though the ceilings very near. With every additional step, I realise that I do not recognise this place at all. I return to the room I was in, but it is not familiar and it seems as though everything is so very large. My search is resumed after that until I locate a room with clothing that looks matured, as if something Papa would wear.

Then, I sit on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to my chest as I try little to think of how long my legs appear to be or how there are a great many feelings I do not understand rushing through me. I am scared, but more than that, I feel alone.

And so, I wait. It is all that I can do now, all that I must do. Mama and Papa will return soon and they will know what to do. They will.