Internal Noise of Neglected Children

"Put the milk on the windowsill, little Erin Joy." Fall down, down, down, uh oh, 8 stories up. We heard of the baby who fell. I help my sister close the window so she and warm air stay in. Radiator stings my knees. I stay by the window a minute more to memorize the Empire State Building lit red and green. This is a famous thing to see, and I want to brag someday. Milk freezes out there. The baby cried when I hacked at the block. I ran it under the bathtub faucet to melt, but water got in and made the milk gross. Baby barely cares. Maaaaaaamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamaaaaaaaaaaaaa. I am six months from 10. Can anything make me madder than that long cry? Diaper rash and runny noses, the cover torn on my library book. Shut up, you just had milk.

No door knob turning. No feet in the hall. I count the hexigon tile and hold my nose as I pee. No TP. I wipe with a bandana from the floor. At least there'll be no more paper in the clogged toilet. One of the younger boys tried to flush a styrofoam cup. Dad will be mad. I dread and flinch.

I remember when our room looked nice. One weekend mom cleaned. The beds were spread with sheets and the trash went to the dumpster in the hall. I remember that I thought the room looked fancy when she tacked a yellow scarf above mine and Erin's bed. I remember how I hoped things were going to be different from then on out.