The night is the same as always. The ceiling doesn’t move, but I stare at it like it might. Screams bleed through the walls—louder when it’s cold, sharper when Mommy’s had too much.
My tummy hurts. Not the kind where you throw up. The other kind. The kind that squeezes like a secret.
I don’t want to wet the bed. Mommy hates that. She says I’m too big now. Last time, she called me a baby and ripped the sheets so hard the mattress lifted. Her face was red. Her words were blue.
I grip him tighter. My dolphin. Light blue, with a squishy belly and a stitched smile. He smells like my old bubble bath—before Mommy threw it away. One button eye is loose, but he still smiles. He never yells. He knows my name. He knows I’m a good girl.
One night, we whispered silly stories, and Mommy laughed so hard she cried. I think about that a lot.
"Help me hold it," I whisper.
I could get up. Open the door. Walk past the yelling, maybe make it to the bathroom. But the door creaks, and they hear everything.
So I stay still. Tears roll past my ears into the pillow. I lick the salt from my lips and imagine I’m swimming, far below the noise, deep in a quiet blue sea, my dolphin leading the way.
He’s glowing now. Bluer than ever.
"Is it ever going to end?" I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. He never does. But I pretend he nods.
And I pretend I believe him.
Athina Lark is a Greek writer who explores memory, survival, and transformation through flash fiction and short stories. Their work leans toward the emotional and the strange.
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