Hush, Little Baby
Hush little baby,
Don't you cry.
Mama's gonna build you
A castle in the sky.
Sara loved the daytime. Her mother and father would both be busy running the Bed and Breakfast, and the eight-year-old would sit her baby brother in his stroller and push him out into a garden that expanded into a lush meadow. She'd breathe in the sweet smell of freshly cut grass, and run her fingers through the smooth green blades.
She'd struggle to lift Dylan from his pushchair, her little cheeks puffing out with the effort, but she'd manage well enough to place him in the middle of the picnic blanket she'd brought. Lying on her back, Sara would stare up at the sky with it's blue gradient. The cotton clouds would drift lazily by. Sometimes, she liked to pretend that the clouds were wings that she could steal from the infinite expanse above her- a pair for herself and a pair for Dylan. They didn't need any adults, they had each other.
Even though Dylan was only small and had very little ability to comprehend words yet, his big sister would spend hours forging stories about 'Princess Sara and Prince Dyl', two courageous little souls that sped around the world saving innocent mortals from great peril- dragons, werewolves, and corrupted warlocks were all felled by their mighty powers.
Her heart would thump in her chest like a drum beating out an allegro rhythm, thinking of a world where she could be brave.
Her imagination was the only irrational part of her. Little Sara Sidle was awfully good at pretending.
I see little baby,
That papa hurts you,
I'm sorry little baby,
He hurts me too.
Sara hated the night time. The creak of a door was a sound that, even into her adult years, sent a cold shiver down her spine as the fear took hold. With each heavy, disorganised thump of footsteps the words 'you are not good enough', were drummed into her mind, overpowering any other thought the way cancer overpowers healthy cells.
She would try with all her might to bring back the image of Princess Sara, of crimson silk gowns matched with ruby jewels encrusted into a gold tiara.
But her father would come and shatter her princess into a thousand tiny pieces until her insides were hollowed out and the only crimson was the liquid ribbons between her legs.
The very man who called her beautiful with inebriated breath was also the one to twist her purity into a deformed clutter of discarded clothes and a heavy, writhing touch.
Quiet little baby,
Don't say a word.
You must be quiet darling,
Or else we'll be heard.
In her lucid moments, Laura Sidle often wondered if her Sara knew how much she was loved. Not in the way her husband loved their daughter, with misplaced lust and clenched. Not the way the voices in Laura's head told her to love her daughter, with neglect and scorn. But in the way she murmured a private mantra to her little girl the nights her husband shared Sara's bed instead of his wife's. The way she would slip into her pink and purple room once she had sobbed herself to sleep, just to whisper in her ear that she could be anything she wanted, if only she would fight for it.
Laura would fight herself sometimes, mentally pushing back against the tiny mutterings in her own ear that she could put her daughter out of her misery right now, if she'd only pick up that pillow and press it against her daughter's face, holding her tight the way she had as a newborn babe. Her mind would spasm images of Sara, head lolling against her own breast, doe eyes open but glazed over with a film of demise.
She forced against these thoughts until they quietened because, really, Sara was simply the collateral in this whole affair.
For the fire of abuse and torment to burn out, she was not the one that needed to die.
He's coming for us baby,
For our castle in the sky,
I cannot take this torture,
Papa has to die.