It was her feet that bothered her the most. No matter how much she scrubbed, soaked or soap, she was never able to completely removed all traces of dirt from her soles and toes. It was never like this before. She remembers so vividly her home, with white shutters on the windows, hard wood floors that creaked as her Grandmother ambled along, her bed with the softest mattress and sheets washed in rose water. She remembered everything, as if the reality of her life now was not strong enough to overshadow her past. Yet she knew it was.
Drawing her knees up to her chest, her arms encircle her legs in silent protection. She rests her head on her knees and closes her eyes. Outside she hears footsteps, pacing up and down, sometimes hurried and anxious, sometimes slow and steady. Beyond that she did not know want existed, she could only imagine. In her day dreams she sees rolling hills, banana trees swaying wordlessly in the breeze. She imagines a wood hut lots between two mango trees, with a swing in the yard and chickens under the old red concrete steps. She smiles to herself...
The man outside stops suddenly, arousing her from her dreams. Shivering slightly, she goes rigid and pale, eyes fixed on the door, waiting for it to open. He steps in, one hand placed on the doorknob, the other lightly pressing against the gun on his hip. He stares at her, as if he could see what she was dreaming. She turns to stone, locking her mind away along with her body. He turns and closes the door behind him. She can hear him struggling to lock it, keys jingling as metal meets metal.
He steady pacing resumes. Slowly, and with excruciating pain she stands up, walks to the far wall of the room and places one eye against the crack she found two weeks ago. The image beyond has not changed. A single brick that is part of a wall.
She looks down at her feet and sighs. They bothered her the most. She could live with the rape, the beatings, the knowledge that she would never see her family again. That they probably thought she was dead and have gone away. England, Canada, like the rest of the families who had children kidnapped. But she would never be able to live everyday, with her dirty feet.
Drawing her knees up to her chest, her arms encircle her legs in silent protection. She rests her head on her knees and closes her eyes. Outside she hears footsteps, pacing up and down, sometimes hurried and anxious, sometimes slow and steady. Beyond that she did not know want existed, she could only imagine. In her day dreams she sees rolling hills, banana trees swaying wordlessly in the breeze. She imagines a wood hut lots between two mango trees, with a swing in the yard and chickens under the old red concrete steps. She smiles to herself...
The man outside stops suddenly, arousing her from her dreams. Shivering slightly, she goes rigid and pale, eyes fixed on the door, waiting for it to open. He steps in, one hand placed on the doorknob, the other lightly pressing against the gun on his hip. He stares at her, as if he could see what she was dreaming. She turns to stone, locking her mind away along with her body. He turns and closes the door behind him. She can hear him struggling to lock it, keys jingling as metal meets metal.
He steady pacing resumes. Slowly, and with excruciating pain she stands up, walks to the far wall of the room and places one eye against the crack she found two weeks ago. The image beyond has not changed. A single brick that is part of a wall.
She looks down at her feet and sighs. They bothered her the most. She could live with the rape, the beatings, the knowledge that she would never see her family again. That they probably thought she was dead and have gone away. England, Canada, like the rest of the families who had children kidnapped. But she would never be able to live everyday, with her dirty feet.
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