The following is a work of fiction. The characters are fictional. Any resemblance of characters to real people is a mere coincidence and unintentional.
The house is now quiet. A truck, a block, a doll, and other toys are still on the living-room floor. An empty bottle lay not five feet away. A used diaper is also close by. Some small dirty shirts and shorts are hanging on the sofa's arm and back. Other empty glass bottles of several colors lay in the bedroom and in the kitchen. Dirty dishes are in and around the kitchen sink.
The front door is open. The breeze coming in from the door moves an object on the table. It's a piece of paper with folds and lots of writing. The words 'notice of' and 'abuse' are seen on it. It has been read.
She is not inside but outside, just standing there facing the street. Her hair and nightgown flow in the breeze. The street is silent now, but in her head the cries, the lowed voices, and her own screams still ring. She feels numb all over, but not from her drinks but from incredulity at what just happened. Her two hearts had just been ripped out of her soul. How can she go on now? The shame of failure descends on her like darkness. Are her issues so pressing to not tend to responsibility?
She does not want this. This is not her desire; this is not her dream. Life was going to be wonderful, back then. Everyone would be happy, back then. Now, 'back then' is gone. The dream is gone as well. Scared of by bills, she spouses. This, but this, is not happiness. This is death, or worse.
She suddenly sees a drop splat on the asphalt. Then another, and another. She bends down. The rain increases, but she stays there. The rain intensifies. The sound of the it muffles her sobs. Nobody comes out. No neighborly help is there. She is alone, as always.
Now she knows what everyone has been telling her. Sometimes the choices you make make decisions for you. Then she thinks, what if she makes a different choice.