Camellia Godunov trailed through the house after learning the news. Each step had her feet dragging across the floor, weighted with frustration and sorrow. At 10, she had composed herself well, perhaps a trait she'd adopted from her mother. As she hit the staircase of the house, she stood there idly for a moment, fists clenched, jaw tightened, as she truly did try to hold herself together. Each glimmering hope that her mother would return was dissipated with each step she climbed.
Once she reached her room, her hand twitched as her body stood still, fearing that if she opened that door, her mother would really be gone. Oh, but she was gone. Camellia knew that all too well; she did, so why did she hesitate? At such a young age, she was burdened with the duty to pick her entire family back onto their feet. She did not believe her father, Anatoliy, could do such a thing. He was gone far too often; she had only known him for his harsh characteristics. Without a moment longer, she turned that door knob, and a fit of anger stormed over the young girl's mind. One that would compete with her fathers. Her rage has turned biblical, incoherent. Tell me where to put the anger. She thought to herself. How do I get closure for something that just suddenly stops? Camellia opened the door slowly, and she took a step inside.