She is always with someone!

The Seniors hang on her every word; hover over her like flies on… molasses.

Her dark-eyed boy is no exception, more persistent perhaps, in his demand of her. They block me constantly, giving me strange, demoralizing, stares.

Not only that, the girl seems disinterested in me. When I do manage to close distance with her, she, herself, stops me in my tracks; glazing over me, and other like-minded individuals such as myself; often the children that clamor.

Please give me a chance!

Although, I do have an advantage over the boy, the Seniors, and everyone else here…

I have an angel!

There must be some commonality between us. I have yet to witness anything spectacular from her, but I have hope. She may not know that she carries an angel, like myself, within her.

I must get close!

In recent days, I have been able to approach her whilst in the bath. The children bathe once every three to four days. We are sat in sealed rooms where buckets and rags are scattered about. These metallic pails, always bursting with lukewarm water, and their counterparts, the rags, always soiled beyond their composition, make a home here, in these rooms; these suffocating rooms.

The Seniors like to pair us.

I make an effort to routinely adhere myself to the salmon-haired girl. No one rebuttals.

The children scrub each other with rags and murky water. Some sneak in large gulps of it.

I frown at the site.

The salmon-haired girl appears to enjoy this part of the day; of the week. I consistently see her smile here, rarely elsewhere. She starts with my back most days. She is quite gentle in her approach, oftentimes I find myself slipping off… although, that could be due to this room’s humid disposition… and my lack of hydration…

“Dehydration is a serious condition,” my angel chirps.

…

I guzzle handfuls of bucket water, whilst the coral-eyed girl is engaged elsewhere.

When my turn comes, I try my utmost best to wash her body in earnest.

She likes to block herself with my body…

I do not mind being bare in front of the others, but it appears she does. She likes to seat herself to the corners of the room, away from the rest.

The children here are well-behaved… and this place consists solely of little girls… all bare, all bathing themselves…

I tilt my head in confusion.

Although… I do sense…. discomfort… discomfort… discomfort…

The tiled walls…

I stare.

Red paint covers them, the tiles and plastering.

I stare.

Droplets of water stream down the shingles.

I continue to stare.

The salmon-haired girl drifts off, I hold her in place, as I keep my eyes on the walls.

…

Black specks dart here and there.

Flies?

Rage fills me. I hear my angel shriek. Waves crash within me. A familiar power emerges.

I see eyes!

Eyes in walls. Eyes like flies.

“Eyes where eyes should not be!” my angel and I shriek.

I take hold of these flies.

One by one, I rip into them. I hear scurrying, low squeals, and heavy thuds…

Dead.

…

I jab the salmon-haired girl between the ribs.

“Finished,” I tell her.

Sluggishly, she nods her head and gets up to leave.

I follow and notice little streams of red liquid lining the already red walls of the room.

…

“Repulsive pests,” my angel and I speak in unison.