A Brand of Fiction

I paused before closing the brass door on the ivy covered house. I wondered if any of them knew what it was, to experience such devastating abuse. I knew not to linger long. As I fled down those cold steps, I cradled my empty belly and willed myself to forget everything.

It started to rain. Of course it did. It was the perfect ending to a suffocating evening.

As I boarded the train, something caught my hand. It was a knotted piece of string. It clung to my fragile wrist like a precariously perched feather, ready to be swept away in a gusty wind. As I looked down to find it’s start, I found myself prisoner of a pair of deep brown eyes. Though I was exhausted and empty, these pleading eyes cut me to the core.

A small hand found its way into mine. The walls around my heart cracked. Disbelief flickered in my eyes, yet the deep brown pools of calm stared back at me, unafraid.

I knew this moment was a gift. It was something rare. Something beautiful. I stood there in awe, knees threatening to buckle beneath me. The small warm hand squeezed mine tightly, and then in an instant, as if it was never there, it was gone.

The train doors closed, and I was alone with my thoughts once more.


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