A sickly, bandaged up girl lied down in her dirty bed. She lied there everyday with nothing to do, so she watched the world pass by outside her window. She never saw much, since all the window showed her was a filthy, back alley in the slums. But today, she saw something new and exciting. She saw a black cat catch a mouse. It happened in an instant. All she saw was a dark shadow leaping out of the darkness, and the cat had the helpless unsuspecting rodent crunched in its mouth. The mouse didn't even twitch, let alone struggle. Only moments later, the cat vanished back into the dark alley. The image of the feline was burned into the girl's sight. She was entranced by its beauty, graceful movements, its little vigorous body and, above all, its freedom. 

"Delilah?" The girls mother enters her room in the midst of her admiration. "Did you see something?" she gently asked, placing a bucket of water down on the floor. Delilah nodded slightly and opened her mouth to speak.

"A cat..." she said. She spoke in a deep, hoarse voice that did not match her tiny body, but it reverberated with sweet, sober overtones. She coughed slightly, and continued. "A cat, black all over. And she... had a mouse."

"I see," her mother spoke in a tired, uncaring voice. She dipped a cloth in the bucket of water and wrung it out. She neatly folded it, then put a hand on Delilah's blanket. “I’ll change your bandages.” She pulled the blanket up above her daughter's knees. Delilah had bandages wrapped around both of her calves, with faint splotches of red in places. When her mother removed the bandages, Delilah's cracked skin, discolored with an awful red, became evident. Her mother began listlessly wiping her legs with expert hands. Delilah tried to tell her mother about how quickly, and how elegantly the cat had caught the mouse. But as it truly had been over in mere moments, she soon ran out of things to say. While she kept silent, her mother finished wrapping up her bandages and pulled the blanket back down over her hideous legs. She looked up at her head, and as if only just noticing, said "Oh, your ribbons slipping." She smiled and gestured for Delilah to look the other way, and she did as she was told, turning her body towards the window. 

Her mother untied the light blue ribbon from her bright blonde hair, and she began to comb it slowly. Delicately, making the utmost effort not to touch the bandages on Delilah's face. Delilah had learned not to move a muscle, and waited for her mother to comb through the entirety of her waist-length hair. She felt that her mother was playing with a doll. Every time her mother's arms moved, a sweet scent wafted into Delilah's nose. Her mother always carried the scent of sweet confections. She always replaced Delilah's bandages when she got home from her job as a confectioner in the evening. 

“I’m sorry I can’t let you play outside,” her mother lamented. At her words, a major warning signal set itself off in Delilah's head, rendering her immobile. She had to choose the correct words and say them in the correct tone of voice, so that her mother wouldn't hate her. She replied as cheerfully as she could.

"It's fine! I like playing in the house!" she lied, looking towards her mother. She smiled, and continued combing through Delilah's hair as if nothing had happened. Delilah may have been born sickly, but that isn't to say that she was confined to her dark, old room since birth. She may not have been able to see the sky, but she knew of its vast blueness. She may not be able to touch the grass, but she knew how it felt beneath her bare feet. Once upon a time, Delilah had been able to run around and play outside. It was fun, but it hurt. Her skin and legs were inflamed and covered in rashes since birth, and the pain in her joints made even the most simple of tasks like walking painful. Nobody knew what it was, much less how to treat it. There weren't any decent doctors around. Even if there were, it's not like they'd have the money to afford their services. 

Her mother used to allow her to play outside whenever Delilah wished to. Her coevals found her repulsive, and their parents wouldn't let them anywhere near her, out of fear of the disease being spread to their children. It wasn't even contagious. She feigned ignorance to the hushed whispers directed at her and played alone. It was better than being locked up in a room, after all. When she tired of playing she'd return home, lie down on her bed with her dirty clothes and bandages as they were, waiting for her mother to return. One day, however, Delilah noticed something off about her mother's hands when she was changing her bandages. 

"Did mummy's touch always feel this rough?" she thought to herself. She didn't have the courage to open her mouth and ask. Just imagining the answer made her shiver in fear. A voice in her head told her:

"It's your fault." 

Delilah felt that her mother would abandon her someday because of what she was. She was almost certain of it. Her mother said nothing of it, but a lot can be said without words. Delilah saw her tightly-pursed lips blaming her for everything. It frightened her more than anything.

No. I don't want to be abandoned! The thought screamed out through the entirety of her body, and starting the next day, she stopped playing outside. The thought of losing her beloved mother was far more terrifying than not being able to go outside. She was a prisoner by the tender age of seven. She sat obediently in her bed, waiting for her mother to return home from work. She refrained from scratching her itches as best she could, so the time her mother spent tending to her was minimum. When she did this, her mother seemed much more kinder than usual.

"There. All fixed," her mother said, finishing adjusting the ribbon in Delilah's hair. She hugged her from behind, and gently swung her body like a cradle. "My darling Delilah." Delilah was put at ease by her mothers sweet scent, and closed her eyes. She loved her mother. To be abandoned by her would have been as good as a death sentence. Because she was the only one who could love her. If her mother wasn't smiling, then neither could she. If her mother wasn't loving her, then she couldn't breathe. She was a weakling who desperately clung to her mother's love. Just like everyone else in the slums who was desperate to live, Delilah was desperate for love. Their small moment of togetherness doesn't last long, as Delilah's father comes home, infuriated. The sound of the front door being violently thrown open was a good indication of that.

"Damn it! Those fucking bastards!" he cursed. Her mother immediately parted from her and held Delilah's hand. The slight shaking of her hand told Delilah that her mother was nervous. It was a small house, so the entryway and Delilah's bedroom were only connected by a door.

"What happened, dear?" her mother asked.

"Wages are dropping again."

"What did the union say?"

"Nothing helpful! Those bastards know we ain't got anywhere else to go for work, so they're skinning us alive! Fuck!" Her father roared, slamming a half empty glass bottle on the rickety, wooden table. Time awkwardly passed in silence. Her father let out a big sigh, and his gaze wandered. He looked passed the downturned eyes of his wife and into the the eyes of his daughter. As soon as he did, he looked away in annoyance and took a swig out of the bottle he had with him. It was always this way. Delilah's father could never look at her. He treated her like she didn't exist. He never said he loved her or hugged her, and he never said he hated her or berated her. But there was no doubt he was aware of her. In fact, it seemed he did all he could to keep his daughter out of his vision entirely.

"Does father hate me?" Delilah had once asked her mother.

"Of course he doesn't," she had told her, solemnly shaking her head. "He goes to work everyday for you."

"Then why doesn't he ever talk to me?"

Her mother fell silent. "I'm sure he's just shy."

At length, he rose from his seat and approached Delilah's mother, pulling her by the hand and separating the mother and daughter. Her father dragged her mother into the other room - the only other room - and locked the door behind them. Once again, Delilah was left all alone. She heard a clamor through the wall. The noises became quiet, then changed to speaking voices. This was the usual. They would always continue their conversation away from her wandering eyes. She'd convince herself that she'd been given free time to do what she fancied, but she knew that she was just being left behind.

Delilah reached for an old doll she kept under her bed. It was a doll of a blonde-haired girl, who wore a purple dress and an eerie smile. Her mother had gifted her the doll, saying 'she has hair like yours.' She had accepted the doll, feigning happiness. Truthfully, she couldn't care less about what color the doll's hair was. Delilah didn't like her hair in the slightest. Her hair was the same color as her father's. She would've preferred to have brown hair, like her mother. Maybe if she had her mother's hair, her father would deign to look at her. Delilah brushed her doll's hair with her hand. The golden yarn was all making it tricky for her fingers to pass through. Growing annoyed, she pushed her way through to force the knots out. 

"That hurts." The doll spoke.

"Be quiet," Delilah told the doll. "How can it hurt? You're just a dolly."

"A dolly? Like you?"

"No." Delilah forcefully denied the doll, but she couldn't help but think back to the countless times her mother had combed her hair. She sat perfectly still, letting her mother do as she liked. She sat still, waiting for her mother to move the comb from the top to the bottom. Just like a doll. But she wasn't a doll. Her eyes weren't dead like the eyes of her doll. She could see all sorts of things. She could witness all sorts of wonders.

"What exactly will you see with those eyes of yours?" The doll giggled, mocking Delilah. "All you can see is the back alley."

At those words, Delilah felt the blood rush to her face. She threw the doll as hard as she could in rage. It hit the wall and landed in a corner of the room. Even from the corner of the room, she could still feel the inorganic eyes of the doll laughing at her. Delilah hid under the covers, not wanting to see or hear anything. She hated being alone. Being alone made her think too much. It made her hear too much. She shut her eyes tight and prayed for her mother to come soon. Before Delilah knew it, she awoke to the sensation of her mother stroking her cheek. Her expression was hollow, but as soon as she saw her daughter, she smiled.

"You're awake?" her mother queried. Delilah nodded. "I'll bring you some water," she says, standing up from her chair and heading to the kitchen sink. It was time for Delilah to take her medicine. She sat upright in her bed as her mother returned, carrying a cup of water and the powdered medicine on a tray. Delilah administered her medicine absentmindedly. As she took it, her eyes wandered to her mother's face, and it shocked her. She was taken aback, as if she had only looked at her mother for the first time in her life. 

Her mother was beautiful. It wasn’t the structure of her face. Her hair was a mess, and she never wore any makeup. She just feebly smiled. But her lower lip was red from being chewed on too much, and that red felt like the only color in Delilah's dark room. Her downcast eyelashes shook with remembrance. Her gaze, her breathing, her clasped hands; they all seemed to have significance. 

This woman is alive. It was a obvious fact, and yet Delilah had just now realized it. Her mother was living. She felt the water at the bottom of her stomach begin writhing, like an angry snake. 

"Mummy..." Delilah uttered. She wanted to scream. She wanted to shout as loud as her little lungs would let her, but all that came out of her throat was a trembling whisper. She felt like she would break down in tears. As her mother saw it, she was only a child worried for her wellbeing. Her mother took her hand and hugged her gently. Unable to express the feelings she had just realized, she clung desperately to her mother's warmth. But even wrapped in her mother's embrace, she couldn't keep down the feelings burning within her heart. In fact, the feeling only seemed to etch itself in Delilah's very being. 

It was hatred. She hated her mother, who showed her what being alive is. She hated her mother, who continued to accept love from a father that never gave any shred of love to his daughter. Feeling such unbridled emotions frightened Delilah. How? How could I hate her, when she's so kind to me? How can I hate her when she's been so loving? Delilah admonished herself and clung tighter to her mother, in an attempt to do away with her ill feelings. Mummy loves me, and that's all I need.

She desperately tried to convince herself and curled up even closer to her mother. But in the corner of the room she could hear the doll question her, its voice filled derision.

"Does she really?"