She found herself at the edge of her bed when she awoke. Beyond the wooden bedpost, the sky turned a murky gray, unlit and unanimated by the rising sun. The house and street remained quiet. Arctic winds, cold and colorless, threatened to break into the house.

The clock ticked loudly, mercilessly, as sixty, six hundred, six thousand seconds crawled by. The time suffocated her, as though it was a tangible entity in which she was perpetually paralyzed. To cling on to her sanity, the girl shred strands of loose hair she had shed the night before.

Thirty seconds of fresh consciousness were enough to remind her of the fears, the specters that floated around the fringes of every thought. They waited for a heartbeat of silence, a moment of doubt, a millisecond of panic, to interject.

She fought valiantly, at the start. Reflective, smooth surfaces lined the inside of her mind, attempting to limit the absorbance of the cold, terror-inducing thoughts. She froze at the mere shadow of the idea. The slightest reminder of the fears hoisted a bold brick-red flag of worry and tension. But beyond the constant caution, on the inside, her mind withered. Her imperfect mental shield shattered, morning after morning, hour after hour, night after night. The inexorable fears plagued every minute of consciousness.

The room reeked of sadness, of expectancy, of anxiety.

The girl was the source of the unease.
She was also the victim.