'What a brave girl.' They said, smoothing her sheets tucking in blankets. Masked faces, showing no emotion no worry as they change blood soaked bandages. They left her alone and behind closed doors wondered, 'Why won't she stop bleeding?' When she woke up her head hurt and her eyes didn't work. Her fingers travelled all over this unknown body, finding valleys and mountains never known discolorations and liquids coming from unfamiliar places. Places where it hurt to touch. And she was scared. 'What a courageous girl.' They said, astounded that no tears stemmed from hollow eyes surrounded by purple markings and the imprint of a fist. Purple was her favorite color. She had a scarf that she would wear, her gypsy scarf. It would take her away from reality. She loved it, and it was purple. But now she wears decorations of rage. Purples, blues, and blacks the color of a new generation of children. Ones that don't trust as much Ones afraid to sleep with the windows open for fear of what will come into their dreams ones that flinch at raised voices and ones that will hesitate to love. And she thought, 'I am not brave' Jaw wired shut, it would be useless to tell them that, for she is not proud that she is unable to cry.