She’s One of Ours


It began years ago; in a grimy cell, behind a wall, in Eastern Europe.

I woke with a start and opened my eyes. She was there. She was not more than six inches away from me; a mere waif of a girl. It was clear that she wanted quiet. Her face was caked with dirt or makeup; I couldn’t tell which, but camouflage was the aim.

She pressed a cool damp cloth over my mouth and nose. It smelled sweet and she faded away.

“Is she the one who got me out?” I asked. “Who is she?”

My questions were dismissed by the others, “You needn’t worry about her. She’s one of ours.”

Now I see her most nights. As I hover at the edge of slumber.

She haunts my dreams.

Photo courtesy of VisDare
Photo courtesy of VisDare Source


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