I pushed open the rickety wooden door in the ghetto.
The room was dark and the lights were off. There was a strange smell in the air, like rust or something rotten. I fumbled to pull the light cord, and the dim light bulb flashed twice before it turned on.
The cake fell to the floor.
I saw my daughter.
She was lying on the floor of the living room, her small body curled up into a ball, like a discarded rag doll. There was a pool of dark red blood on the ground, which had solidified and was sticky on her skirt and face. Her eyes were half-open, her pupils were dilated, and there was a trace of blood hanging from the corner of her mouth.
