I shook off the uneasiness that was boiling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t have all this worry; that wouldn’t help my anxiety at all. Mother always tells me I’m too paranoid about everything, but I can’t help it. I’m very in touch with my senses. I take in the fullness of everything; smell, taste, touch, sound. I examine things to a newer level. I picked a rose from the foliage that came up to my ankles. The rose bushes had been here for hundred of years. I think I read that in a library book.

I sighed at the natural beauty of the flower, gazing at its intricate petals and leaves. My gaze narrowed to the thorns. The thorns had always been my favorite part of the rose. I’ve always been an odd child, I know. I have just loved the thorns since I could remember by sight and smell what roses are. The thorns are what protect the flowers, keeping them safe from greedy thieves.

I enclosed my hand around the rose, carefully avoiding the sharp, beautiful thorns. I kept skipping along the vine-twisted path. I’d been down this path thousands of times before, enough times, in fact, for my own dirt path to form over the years of skipping and strolling down here. This place has always been a safe haven for me, in a way.

I pushed a few stray golden locks out of my eyes. My legs continued to gallop down the path. I started to sing.
“Three blind mice, three blind mice,
See how they run, see how they run,
They all ran after the farmer's wife,
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife,
Did you ever see such a thing in your life,
As three blind mice?”

Mother had taught me this nursery rhyme. I used to scare all the little girls around me when I sang this, but I liked it so I continued to sing even if they did cry. I skipped, sang, and continued down the weathered path, rose in hand. I felt my braid thump against my back as I skipped, but I didn’t mind. My secret hideout was just a few more skips ahead. I stopped abruptly when I got to the wall of ivy.

This was it, my safe haven. I pushed a section of ivy away, finding the spot in the old, brick wall where the crimson bricks had crumbled away, making an entrance just small enough for me to climb through. I went in feet first, my dusty Mary Jane’s landing with a plop on the ceramic tiling. I sighed, smiling at the sight of my hideout, pristine and weathered just as I had left it.

My tea set was still scattered around on the white marble table, and my porcelain dolls were still resting in their seats around the table. My shady tree’s branches were covered in sweet smelling white flowers, and my rusty swing set creaked and moaned in the early spring wind. I quickly swept the ivy back in its place, making sure my entrance was covered.

I ran over to my tea set, taking my special blue cup and filling it with fake tea. Some day I’ll make real tea, I thought to myself. But today I didn’t have any time. I glanced over at my dolls. All of them had cracked faces and limbs, but I still loved them nonetheless.

“Hello, Miss Mary.” I said softly. Miss Mary was my favorite doll, but I wouldn’t ever tell Daisy or Rain, my other two dolls. Miss Mary always got the seat next to me, and she always got the prettiest clothes, too. Of course her clothes never changed. They’d been the same since the day Mother gave her to me. Miss Mary had a pretty, emerald dress and petticoat. Her shoes were a champagne color, and she had a matching hat and parasol. Her hair was curly and dark brown, and one of her eyes was missing, but they both had been green. Miss Mary’s creamy, white face was cracked up and down, but only her face. Daisy and Rain were very similar, but Daisy had all blue clothing, and Rain had all red.

I sipped the rest of my imaginary tea and pounced out of my chair, leaving my dolls in their seats. I ran over to my reliable, old tree. I had named him Oak, because I had thought he was an oak tree. Mother had later explained he was a cherry tree, but I still kept his name because I was too stuck on the name Oak to change it. As I was running, I tripped over the large stone slab that was sticking out of the ground below Oak. I felt my knee cut open, and I felt the warm, trickling of blood slide down my shin. I looked down at my leg, and I saw that my blood had stained my lace-embroidered white socks. I shook it off.

I dipped my finger in the blood, and used my finger as a paintbrush to sketch a heart on the slab. I figured Mother would love it, since she loved me so much.

“Hey, Mom.” I said, looking at the tombstone. I took a seat on it, my legs dangling just enough for me to swing them back and forth. The ground around Mom’s tombstone was still brown and without grass. It really hadn’t been that long since Mom’s death, but I feel bad for not really crying at all over it. I heard a sharp, metallic thud. It sounded like someone had tapped concrete with a fork. I felt the air above me cool down, and I saw the shadow contrast against the mud below me.

I turned around, anger flashing through me. Who in their right mind would come into my secret hideout? My heart dropped, and my blood turned to ice. Her golden hair fluttered in the wind, her brown eyes locked on me, and her fingers were firmly curved around the cutter. She moved towards me at spine-chilling speed, the carving knife gleaming in her hands.

“Mom!” I cried, my voice squeaky and panicky. “Mom, you promised to stop! Please!” I panicked. I dropped the rose, a soft plink sounding as it fell into the puddle of my blood. But then I remembered it. Mom can’t hurt me anymore. The switchblade went straight through my hazy gut, and my image started to fade. The edges of my outline trickled away, and my wings took me away to the better place, the place where there’s no pain or suffering. I looked down at the bitter world below me, leaving Mother behind.
“Three blind mice, three blind mice,
See how they run, see how they run,
They all ran after the farmer's wife,
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife,
Did you ever see such a thing in your life,
As three blind mice?”

I sang softly as I faded up into the sky, leaving the world of suffering and sorrow behind me.