My childhood story isn't spell-binding, but I am pretty sure it was on par with other students. I was just another student in a sea of students ...
As with listening to music, physical and emotional pain both have the power to be so loud for so long they affect your hearing it anymore. Pain is powerful. Pain has volume.
My hold on reality is tenuous at times. I roll up in my sheets, comforter, and pillow, wrapping my arms around me. I don't know how I fell asleep—fearful of his coming, down the hall, through the door, and for me.
Any fragment of my body given from the outside must be experienced ... by me from within myself, and it is only through this experiencing from within that it can be rendered part of myself, part of my once occurrent unity.
My memory is trimmed with Christmases at my grandparent’s home. Traditions wrapped in love mound under the tree.
This is the first in a series of three stories written by a child who knows the abuse of parents and the spark of writing.
In the 19th century, the Paris morgue was a building where bodies were laid out for exposure to the public, originally for identification.