The wind danced wildly through her brown locks waving behind her trying to catch up; her pink ribbon becoming loose as she ran. Out of breath, she raced upstairs, slamming the historically old door behind her.

Her room was of no color or theme. It surrounded her like a dark night: breezeless, empty. The room told no time, always dark, always silent except for the creaking of loose floorboards.

A slam from the front door alerted her it was already nine, the time her father got home from work. She locked her door and climbed into bed.

The wind danced wildly through her brown locks waving behind her trying to catch up; her pink ribbon becoming loose as she ran. Out of breath, she raced upstairs, slamming the historically old door behind her.

Her room was of no color or theme. It surrounded her like a dark night: breezeless, empty. The room told no time, always dark, always silent except for the creaking of loose floorboards. She lifted one, and quietly opened her sacred music box. It was worn, and required the key on her necklace to open.

It whispered a hushed lullaby so silent she could hear the clicking of the gadgets twisting the Black Swan Ballerina in circles. The ballerina interested her. She stared for hours, mysteriously never having to turn the knob for the music to continue. The ballerina drew her in, closer, whispering her name.
“Sarah…Sarah…”
“Sarah!” Her father was banging on her door.
“Sarah, let’s GO! Get in the car NOW!” He was never the loving type.

She threw on her school uniform, straightened her pink ribbon, grabbed her lunchbox and went to school. The third grade wasn’t all that fun. The closest thing to excitement they ever got was the occasional principal’s office visit.
“Now Sarah, this is the third time this month. Why have you injured another student? Maria was pushed off the swing this morning, the same as Jack and Sophie when you were playing with them.” The principal accusingly glared at her.

She played with the paperclips on the edge of his desk trying to avoid the question.
“Sarah, answer me.”
She replied in a monotone yet innocent voice, “Principal Brady, it was an accident.” And who couldn’t believe a little girl with a pink ribbon tying her brown locks back?

The principal handed her an envelope.
“Bring this home to your father for me?”

She mumbled thank you, shook his and the security guards’ hands, and gracefully walked out of the office.

The post-it on top said, “For Mr. Kisik,” and was the first thing to be thrown away upon returning home. She then cut the letter into thousands of pieces with her scissors. The computer rumbled as she turned it on and she began to type furiously at the keyboard:

“Dear Mr. Kisik,


Sarah’s behavior has improved and she is doing well in school. Our follow up meeting will not be necessary.

Sincerely,


Principal Brady”
She sealed the envelope and left it on the counter. She ran upstairs and locked her door. She fell asleep early.

Her father never came home.
The wind danced wildly through her brown locks waving behind her trying to catch up; her pink ribbon becoming loose as she ran. Out of breath, she raced upstairs, slamming the historically old door behind her.

Her room was of no color or theme. It surrounded her like a dark night: breezeless, empty. The room told no time, always dark, always silent except for the creaking of loose floorboards. She lifted one, and quietly opened her sacred music box. She stared at the Black Swan Ballerina for hours. It whispered a hushed lullaby so silent she could only make out the words, “You killed them.”

The wind danced wildly through her brown locks, waving behind her trying to catch up; he pink ribbon becoming loose as she ran. Out of breath, she raced upstairs, slamming the historically old door behind her. But the Black Swan Ballerina had already taken her soul.