Six years ago my repressed past began erupting to the surface. My mind felt like a war zone. If I had painted a picture of it, the buildings would have been in rubble with broken rock everywhere, blocking the streets as if a bomb had gone off. Everything is in ruins. Stray dogs and vacant, shell-shocked people silently wander what’s left of the streets.
My body is streaked with sweat and dirt from my desperate search to find safe shelter. I’m barefoot, in a grimy torn t-shirt and shorts; my hands and feet caked with dirt. My hair is filthy and matted. My mouth is dry; I can smell and taste the gritty dust that hangs in the air. I sit down on a curb at the side of the road, and I know it’s over.
I’m unbelievably weary, all my energy spent in the act of sitting down. I’m…
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