For the Downtrodden.
For the Sufferers.
For the Children of Monsters.
13 April, 2034.
Her cheeks bear the bruises of a fist not her own. I do not like the girl, but nonetheless I must forward my concern to you, Victor. She is apparently eleven years old, and while her small size and soft features may seem that of a nine-year old's, she herself is timeless. I have only visited my niece a few times now, but she has not spoken to me once, and does not make eye contact.
I can see the bruises on her arms, Victor. Real ones. She is a sickly little scrap of a girl, and her eyes dart the way her mother's do. So while I myself find the child repulsive and very nearly unbearable, I must admit that she is a child nonetheless and a child must be taken care of, no?
I know you do not care for such children. I myself have described her with the sharp mouth of vicious truth, but I can assure you that she is quiet. Very quiet. She extremely shy and prefers to remain hidden. And she's just your type, too, Victor! Scandinavian white-blonde, petite. All you look for in a child. And while she may seem fine now, I have the worrisome feeling that if she continues to live with her parents her face will not be so pretty in the next few years.
Think her over, my love. Her name is Tzipora.