She rocked in the corner, her baby ringlets swaying too and fro to the rhythm, her tears streaming freely down her cheek. Clutching her teddy bear, she buries her face from the screaming and fighting in the kitchen.
The screaming and fighting, the tears and the cries, the despair and the pain, the daily fear, waiting for when it will happen next. But her teddy is always there.
Her birthday comes around, she is excited and happy, running into the lounge room, clutching her teddy. She finds a drunk father, yelling at her mom, waving his hands dangerously. She finds her mum, cowering like a lost puppy, crying soundlessly.
She doesn't find presents or happiness, not a day trip to the beach or a visit from her family, but fighting and screaming.
She grows up, her life the same, more birthdays have passed, more years spent with just her teddy. She can't talk to anyone, can't say a thing, just clutch her teddy and wait until mummy and daddy stop fighting. If ever.
But now shes too old. The teddy isn't enough. She packs her bags and leaves the house of fighting and screaming. Her beloved teddy left on the bed. No grief no regret.