My family locked me in the basement to give birth. Days later, they returned to find a dark red liquid seeping from the door. As my mother screamed, a voice whispered behind her, “Looking for me?”
I organized my subterranean theater with the chilling composure of a forensic architect. The surviving rations were pushed out of sight. The tools were aligned with surgical precision. The leather photo album was resting safely on the only dry table.
As the sun set on the final night of my captivity, I was no longer a victim begging for continue reading …
