The water filling the porcelain white tub was lukewarm. It filled her mouth, made its way down her throat and burned her lungs. She tried to cry, tried to scream, but each breath was just more water into her already waterlogged respiration. The small heart in her small chest raced. Precious bubbles floated to the surface with each desperate gulp.
Hands forced her under the water, holding her there. They were manicured to perfection, the ivory white tips glistening in the light filtering through the bathwater. These were the hands that used to care for her, that should care for her, and that still cared for her, in their own twisted way, but they didn’t answer her water filled cries.
Her arms flailed fruitlessly, her small weak body no match for the hands which held her. Water splashed around the tub, inconsequentially spilling onto the decorative tile. It ran through the cracks, seeking lower ground, slowly puddling. Such a small mess for such an atrocious deed.
The world was going dim.
There was no peace for her panicked lungs, just calm for her body. Her struggles slowed. The sloshing of the water slowed with her paddling arms, no longer cresting the top of the tub with each oscillation.
Sensing her defeat, the hands relaxed. They caressed her, calmed her even as the pain grew worse and the world darkened. They no longer held her with force, becoming almost gentle, easing her into the darkness. The darkness where nothing awaited her but calm. A calm nonexistence.
She would die, then she would fade and then she would no longer be. Within that nonexistence she would be calm, but she would not be at peace.
She would never be at peace.
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