Reluctantly, at first, you start to dance. A toe-tap here, a flourish of an arm there. It is hard, after all, to dance with the penetrating noise of screams permeating your mind.
Your dance brings you around the children, each step and twirl opening your ears to a new sound, a new scream. An sadistic musical pronounces itself, as each scream differs in pitch and volume. The music and dance is brought rhythm and beat, too, by the screams: each gasp for air adds a staccato to the song.
Your joy in the screams moves your body to the new-found beat, a grin of happiness slashed across your face. As you swirl you see from the corner of your eyes the flutter of drapes as others peer down on you, as you had spied on the screaming boy before.
But you don't care, just as he didn't care, just as the multitudes of screaming children surrounding you don't care. Or do you?
Why yes, you do care. In fact, you stop your dance to stare down the drapes. But the screams still call you to dance. It is intoxicating. Your mind is rent with choices.