Plural Selves

Be Afraid:

She’s huddled in a corner of the room behind a table, locks of brown hair plastered to her moist cheeks and brow, rhythmically sucking her thumb while her eyes are squeezed shut. Knees gripped with one spindly arm to her chest, she rocks slowly making no noise except for the wet sound of the thumb in her mouth.
Minutes earlier she had been dancing for an audience of one, tapping her feet and singing; earlier still, she had been playing the piano: Bach, Mozart, and had been discussing music.

She acts like a child.