The calico carpet runway calls for me to run away. Mustard yellow, weary walls, behind which I yearn to hide, face me, with white lights overhead showering down a stifling coldness. Well, into the hallway of harrow I go: one small step for womankind, one hell of a trip for me. Beyond the sharp turn at the end of the hall stands the CARE center, where I will be cared for.

Who’s asking; was it the receptionist or was it him? The receptionist’s simple question hits like an accusation, as though it were him asking for the censoring of my reality.

Muffled thoughts translate into muted mumbling. Terror strangles my voice, shaking it in its grip. Tears crawl out my eyes, down my cheeks. Somehow, she understands and sends me into a room with an advocate.

I walk this hallway again and again in my mind, when memories pound on my skull, demanding to be acknowledged.

Here, this journey began. Here, this journey restarted. Then, here, perhaps, it will end.

Apostrophe

*The Beginning of the End

Niccolo M.