He walked up to her room to tell her it was time to go. Three courtesy raps on the door and then
he turned the knob.
“Monrovia?” He called out softly.
Her room was tidy and clean. Not the room of a six-year-old. Her soft pink walls showed the
room to be feminine. The soft eggshell carpet was spotless, not a toy or a stray sock out of
He walked to the right searching for a sign of her. He saw her small white dresser, gifts from
birthdays past set down carefully upon it and then left alone. Next to that was a child size vanity
they had put in there when he and his wife gave Monrovia this big girl room and moved her out
of the nursery.
He walked towards the vanity.
She had covered up the mirror with a sheet. The table of the vanity had a few pieces of blank
paper and two pencils arranged neatly side-by-side and perfectly even.
The open window allowed in a light summer breeze that fluttered her curtains, causing him to
On the floor in the sunlight, next to her routinely made bed, sat his beautiful little girl, hugging
her knees with her chin set upon them.
She didn't look up. He stepped lightly over and squatted down in front of her, he looked over at
the little garbage can that was to her left, overflowing with blood stained rags and gauze...his
“Must I go, Daddy?” she spoke softly. Her voice calm. Emotionless. But he knew better.
With tears in his eyes he stood, grabbing the edge of the garbage can on his way up. He
glanced again around the room of his little girl. Void of her personality. Full of expectations.
“Yes, Monrovia. You must.”