I do not know how long I have been here and I’m not even sure why I am. The bouquet of white daisies in my callous palms are wilted and saddened, growing sickly in colour. The slamming of doors and the wracked sobs in the distance blend into the cracks of despair. Death is a frequent visitor here. Sweaty palms and strained breaths are the only things that remind me I am living. I hear my name being called but delay my response for a minute or two, I am unsure as to whether I want to know what is happening. A second beckoning of my name and I’m up on both feet. I want to know, I have decided, I want to know what is happening. I want to know how to fix it. I cannot, she says, I cannot fix this. She tells me she’s sorry, too late she says. Too late. Too late. Too late. Too late for what? Too late to fix it? No! She’s a liar, I tell her, I tell her: “You’re a liar!” How can it be true? I ask her, I ask her how can it be true?I tell her if she won’t tell me the truth I’ll find it for myself. She tried to warn me, oh how she did. I was too fast. I ran to the room I was waiting for, I ran to the room of my lifeline. Except the beds are stripped and the breeze is free-flowing, the blood soaked sheets now abandoned on the floor. I am left with nothing. I am nothing. Sweaty palms and strained breaths are all that remind me I am living, Broken sobs and torn up heartstrings cry out for a world this unforgiving. -Elouise b :)