Mommy's Hair

A quick micro-horror

"I braid Mommy's hair every day and I sing since she can't anymore. She always kisses my fingers when I'm done."

The little blind girl's words echo in my mind. I still don't know how to tell her that she won't get to braid her mother's hair anymore. I don't know how much I can even stand to say.

But it's all I can think about. While I look through the dark, dirty house she had been kept in, I wonder how I can tell her she hasn't been at home in months. When I watch the ragged man rock back and forth while he hums the little girl's song, I wonder how I can tell her that it wasn't her mother holding her and kissing her fingers. And more than anything, every time I look through the things we found, I wonder how I could possibly tell her that it was still her mother's hair she was braiding.