Paint flecking off, your fist starting to hurt and turn a brilliant shade of red, tears coursing down your face, you eventually sink to the floor. Sticking your thumb into your mouth, not caring what you are doing as you attempt to banish the voice in your head telling you, "Only babies suck their thumb," which you realise is the voice of your mommy, you peer despondently about the shed. Looking at the garden stuff, the bags of who-knows-what, the table and the tools, you eventually decide it is all hopeless and laying down on your side, thumb still planted in your mouth, you dejectedly ask yourself, "Why bother. I'm never going to find the public toilets again."
Tears starting to fall once again, you attempt brush them furiously off your face with your free hand. Failing to do that, you squeeze your eyes shut and whisper, "Can't even stop blubbering like a little girl," as you attempt to figure out why what had happened had happened and what you could honestly do about it.
No answer coming, you stay where you are for some time, drifting between a sort of REM sleep and a form of being awake. After some time, you open your eyes and still feeling dejected, you debate whether maybe you should wait until some park attendant comes along and finds you. Minutes slipping by and you decide that if someone did discover you, they would treat you like a little girl. This was something you didn't want, finding that you still didn't like thinking of the reality of what happened and pushing yourself up, you gaze about. Standing, you figure that you should try and find a way out of the shed and taking a couple step away from the door, you hear a ripping noise.
A quick look down and you groan when you see that somehow your shirt, which is now dirtier and torn worse than when you first entered the park, had somehow become snagged on a pair of pruning shears. Muttering, "Great. Just great," you attempt to dislodge your shirt and after making the tear bigger, and discovering it had originally been a serious of loose threads that had become snagged, you huff in agitation when you realise that soon you'll have nothing to wear.
Distraught over such a notion, you peer down at the tattered remains of your shirt and silently pray they hold together long enough for you to find a way out of the nightmare you believe you've been thrust into. "Or, at least until I can find my mommy and she can get me a nice, clean, pretty dress," you say aloud and groaning at what you've said, you mutter under your breath, "No. Not a girl. No mommy. No pretty dresses. No dollies. I wear cute pastel panties. I pee sitting down. I have icky boy parts. I do things a boy would normally do," and confused about what activities a boy would normally do, missing how badly you muddled up facts, you head towards the table.
----
What seems like hours late, you once again find yourself sitting with your back to the door. The only difference is that you are now completely nude, as the tears shirt you had been wearing had slowly worsened, especially when the garment became caught a number of times during your search. Holding the remains of the article clothing over your lap, not wanting to even look down at your groin, hating what you know you'll see, you sigh. Your search of the shed hadn't turned up anything of use. Over all the, maintenance shed appeared to appeared to be exactly was it was and nothing more. The only hope you could see of getting out was a possible hole in the roof, which was about ten to fifteen feet above your head, another grate buried behind a bunch of stuff under the table, which you really didn't want to try as you recalled the last grates you had climbed through, and a hole in the door, which you thought might be for key or another doorknob, though you could not fathom why the handle on the inside would be removable.
Slowly peering about the shed, you eventually shift in place. Taking the remains of your shirt, you manage to tie it around your waist, making a makeshift skirt out of it. Hating the way it looked, wishing for a decent skirt, you try to overcome the thought by trying to figure out a way to get out of the shed. No longer wanting to wait for a park attendant, feeling it would only lead to an embarrassing situation, you slowly stand. Peering in the direction of the grate, then up to what might be only a small hole, you where not entirely sure on its size, you eventually mutter, "Hole or grate," as you decide that one of these two would get you out of the shed and, what you hoped, back into the park.