Vera

The walls of the room were painted a faded cream, peeling in the corners, as if even the plaster wanted to escape this place. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swinging slightly whenever the wind rattled through the cracks of the boarded window. It wasn’t a prison cell, not in the traditional sense, but it might as well have been. The door was heavy, bolted from the outside, the air stagnant with the sour scent of damp wood and old smoke.

Vanessa sat curled in my lap, her tiny body ...