Last night I dreamt of a little girl...she was sad and I couldn't tell whether it was melodrama or true Plath-esque bipolarity. She talked of harming herself and I would have called her bluff had she not been around eight-years-old and seemingly perceptive and honest.
Her mothers came and told her to stop talking; they hit her and they made me so, so angry. I tried to stand up to her, she was thin but muscular with short, spiked hair. She was stronger than me and grabbed me and groped me.
Part of me liked it; I forgot about the little girl and playfully hit the mother and walked past.
I went to the trampoline and there were bottles and bottles of vodka and whiskey and rum; I begged them to leave, because I had been in enough trouble, but they wouldn't.
They said, "We don't really care, Kassandra; we just don't."