The television crackled in the corner of the room, its faded colors bleeding across the screen like wounds that refused to close. Voices spoke of war, of missiles, of nuclear ultimatums. For Maggie, six years old, none of it meant anything. The words bounced against her mind without finding a place to stick. She didn't know what "nuclear" meant, nor what an ultimatum was. All she understood were the images of flames dancing on the screen and the dull fear in the presenters' voices.

She clutched her doll to her chest. A misshapen thing, its face long torn away, its head disfigured, but it was the only presence that did not frighten her. Her only companion, silent, faithful. She pressed it against her bony chest, jaw clenched, as if this doll could keep her from vanishing.

The bench she sat on creaked under her small weight. Her bare feet barely touched the floor. The room smelled of dampness and dust. The walls peeled, the roof let in cold drafts. Maggie shivered, but it wasn't the cold that twisted her stomach. It was the impression that the whole world, outside and inside, was falling apart.

Then the door slammed open against the wall with a dry crash. The little girl flinched, clutching her doll tighter.

A man entered. His stench came first, heavy, a mixture of sweat and strong alcohol. A bottle swung against his thigh, gripped in one hand. In the other, a belt dangled, its leather worn. His bloodshot eyes fixed on Maggie with a grin that carried no warmth.

"Well, well," he said, voice thick. "Still glued to your TV?"

Maggie didn't answer. She lowered her head, staring at her dirty toes. Don't meet his eyes. Don't exist. That was her only defense. But the man didn't need an answer.

He threw a glance at the screen, spat a rough cough.

"Another war?" he barked. "And we're starving!"

He lifted the bottle to his lips, drank deeply, then let it drop to the floor. It rolled and clinked until it hit the wall. His heavy steps filled the room. He grabbed Maggie's small hand. His grip was like iron, trembling yet unyielding. She pulled, twisted, tried to break free, but it was useless. Her thin fingers crumpled against his with no strength to escape.

"Come on," he said with a falsely soft voice that slid over her skin like venom. "Let's have some fun. War's for other people."

"No…" she whispered, voice broken. She tugged again.

Her refusal seemed to enrage him. His grin twisted into a snarl.

"What? Didn't like it last time?" He shook her hand as one shakes a puppy. "Want another taste of my belt? Or my fist?"

Hot tears blurred Maggie's vision. Her legs trembled, her stomach clenched. Every step toward the bedroom was a step deeper into terror.

The room he opened was drowned in near total darkness. No electricity. Just thick shadow and a stench so foul it seemed alive. Maggie held her breath, but it forced itself into her throat, making her gag.

Her eyes adjusted slowly. She saw two shapes lying on the bed. She didn't need to look long. She knew. She had always known. Her father. Her mother. Their bodies rotting there, abandoned. Rats scurried in the corners, worms writhed on their flesh.

The man laughed. A short, sharp sound.

"Say goodnight to Mom and Dad," he said. "Miserable cowards. Took their own lives, couldn't stomach poverty. And they left you behind." His rough hand clamped around the little girl's chin, forcing her to face the corpses. "There's your heroes. Cowards."

Maggie sobbed, choking on her cries. She shook her head, refusing to look.

"So," the man went on, his voice lowering, thickening. "Let's show them. Show these corpses what happens to their girl when they run away. Just like last time."

He yanked hard at her collar. The fabric tore. The child screamed, threw herself to the floor, clutching her doll desperately. She buried it against herself, as if that ruined rag could protect her. But the man only laughed. A laugh almost demonic.

He bent over her. But Maggie moved, suddenly. Her small body twisted, her arm shot out, every ounce of rage, fear, and pain of her six years condensed into that one motion.

The impact was sharp.

The man staggered back, eyes wide. A brutal pain seared his throat. His hand flew to his neck. He didn't understand at first. His breath caught, blood poured. The room blurred.

Maggie stood before him. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her eyes burned with a fury no child should bear. In her left hand she still clutched her doll. In her right, a knife.

The knife. The one her parents had used to cut their veins. The one left forgotten in that room, filthy, rust-stained. She had found it, seized it, and buried it in her tormentor's throat.

The man staggered, choking. The world became a red chaos. His mouth opened to speak, but no sound came. He dropped to his knees, fingers clawing at the blade, but he had no strength left. The blood seeped through his hands, sticky, hot.

Maggie stepped back, clutching her doll tighter. Her breathing came in ragged gasps, her small body trembling, but her eyes never left him. He reached one last time toward her, hand outstretched as if to seize her again, but collapsed. A heavy thud. Nothing more.

Only silence.

Only the child's ragged breaths. The television still sputtered in the distance, spitting images of war. Missiles, flames, maps. The world spoke of annihilation. But for Maggie, the world had already collapsed.

She dropped the knife. It fell into a darkening pool. She let herself fall too, kneeling, arms wrapping around her doll. She pressed her forehead against the rough cloth, squeezing until her fingers turned white. Then the sobs broke free, unstoppable. Not just the sobs of a beaten child, but of a being who had just realized that survival was no miracle, but a crime.

She raised her eyes to the bed. To her parents' corpses. The stench was unbearable, but she didn't look away this time. Not now.

"Why…" she whispered, her voice lost in the silence. "Why did you leave? Why me?"

No answer. Only the static hum of the television, the murmur of distant war. And the still-warm corpse of a man at her feet.

In that chaos of ruins, misery, and rotting flesh, Maggie became something else. No longer a child. Not yet a warrior. But a survivor.

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