Voices

She had been afraid this would happen, ever since she was a little girl of 10, watching her mother experience much the same thing in the tiny pink bedroom they shared. Just like her mother, who had been lock up seven-and-a-half years ago, she too was hearing voices.
And not just every once in a while, either. But constantly. With and without other people being present.
She could hear them now, chatting quietly to themselves as she tried to lock the sound out of her mind, sweeping harder with her broom so that its hard scratching sound would block them out. It didn't work. She could still hear them. No matter what she did, she could always here them now.
"Who's there?" she screamed in frustration, throwing the broom to the ground and sinking into a corner as she waited for the familiar panic to settle in.
The multitude of voices died down to a whisper, the hum abating to one that was scarcely audible.
And then: one voice. A man's, low and indescriminate.
"Me".
"What do you want?" she cried, half screaming and half choking on her own sobs. Her hands were shaking, she balled her skirt with her hands to keep from lashing out at what she could not see.
The hum in the background disappeared completely.
The voice returned, "Nothing," then faded away.
Notes to self: - tiny pink bed isnt working, reword it to something more barren, desolate. Remember, she's poor, trying her best, and slowly going insane.
- General word structure/order needs to be improved.
Highlighted by the prof in class (not necessarily about my writing, but others as well):
- avoid using (too many) sentences like "I was walking down the street..."
- "free direct discourse" eg, damn traffic, she thought. (Ie, almost a convo, but no quotes.)
- "transferred epithet" eg, "smoking a thoughtful cigarette". P.G. Woodhouse uses this apparently, eg) "soaking a meditative foot".