My legs are stuck together from the sticky heat filtering in through the windows, and my hands are holding onto the bench in front of me, creased from the pressure. Next to me, Momma's heels tap the ground repeatedly, nervous pitter-patter, background noise.
Daddy's on the stand, now, his voice rough and hoarse. He speaks carefully, but the pauses don't change the color of his skin or the undertones of his voice. As he speaks, it feels like the courtroom is getting smaller, like the wood-panelled walls are closing in on me, like I'm going to be stuck in them, screaming forever. No one would notice.
All I want is to be outside--the park is only a few miles away, where Momma and Daddy and I used to spend late summer days laughing. There, under the open sky, every color was beautiful. The world was there for us to see, the trees and the sun and the stars.
Now, however, the only things above me are the old yellow lights, and they are no match for the sun.