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.