After the clouds had darkened and the rain had outpoured, the furious lightning tore the sky and sent thunder echoing through thousands and thousands of miles.

The roar of nature woke the child, pulled her from the deep, eternal sleep. She opened her eyes, and once she did, felt life pour into her. It was as if she had been dead along, the child realized now as she felt warmth seep through her circulating veins.

The most wonderful thing . . . she was experiencing the most wonderful thing. To be alive once again, and to feel the beat of her heart. To breathe, and to think; to experience, and to feel.

To see.

So she walked out the cave, went to the rain, and danced as though she was the happiest in the world. She danced and danced . . . jumped and rejoiced. She felt life, and she promised to treasure it.

Once the elation had leveled, though, she felt tear trickle down her nourished cheek, felt it streak then drip to the soil as though part of the rain. She didn’t know why, but she suddenly felt sad. The thunder boomed again, and the birds raced across the sky. The moon was watching, surrounded by freckles of stars, supported with dark, heavy clouds beneath it.

She looked up them, and realized how small she was in this vast, vast world.

Tears continued to escape her eyes and fall to the earth. Like rain, it was her sorrow. All happiness had vanished. Instead, she felt this misery, this horror that seemed to eat her.

There was the third lightning, and at the scatter of brilliant light, she remembered.

She remembered, and then she wept.

A man came into her one sunny day in the park, promised her joys of candy and wonderful fantasy, and she believed him. Her naiveté delighted the man, and so he brought the girl in a secluded cave, after which he tore the child’s clothing and slapped her around. The man beat the helpless victim, thrashed her around, and took her innocence in powerful pounds. When he was done, he took the knife, unsheathed it and stabbed it to the child’s bruised body.

There were screams that disturbed the owls, made frantic preys ran around in quiet despair; it pierced the silence in the forest as a rake would do to a maiden’s skin. Screams, shrills, blistering calls for helps, all of them lasted in a span of thirty minutes. Until finally . . . finally, to the child’s great relief, it was over and done with.

The child, her head lowered to the ground as rain drenched her in miserable coldness, remembered it all.

And as the owl hooted, midnight came in a sweep of predatory craze, marked another night of scarlet hunt, signaled the predators to chase their pray; screams and grunts echoed around; speed competed against speed.

But the child, weeping, was oblivious to the nightly ritual. She called for her mother, screamed for her father, and begged for her brother.

She shouted and shouted until the last of her croaking voice betrayed her. But no one responded, nobody cared.

Nobody seemed to care that she was dead.

And so her restless soul searched . . . searched . . . looked for the man who had started and ended it all.