Bit-lipped, with grave solemn, she counted one to ten aloud in her mind. And when the yelling hadn't concluded by then, she repeated the counting cycle. As she did so, the numbers detonated in her mind like gun-fire exploding against the flesh of an animal. All she could hear were deafening noises that surrounded her like scavengers. She stood still, awaiting any form of rescue, but all that remained before her were banging of doors, followed up by slamming of doors. She listened in fright for several hours before the the commotion took a break.

There, she heard a lines of ringing sounds, increasing by pitch every minute. She dreaded it, she did. Counting no longer helped like it did when she was younger, 10 or so. Then, her breath of pants returned. This meant fear. She could hear the doors outside her room bang in furiousity. In her refuge, she silently anticipated repetition.

Counting was her only way of averting.