Maria
The penthouse was like living in a gallery, but living in the castle is like living in a museum. I wander freely from room to room, and the only thing that stops me is the occasional locked door. I admire paintings of landscapes and saints that are centuries old. Paintings in carved gold frames of bearded men in cloaks, caught in the throes of ecstasy. Landscapes of the West when it was first settled. I gasp loudly when I find a room of Madonnas. A wall covered in icons, ancient and breathtaking.
I walk in a trance toward the serene faces and smell a whiff of incense in the air.
But a guard materializes like magic when I step too close to a door leading to the outside. I'm always reminded when I forget I'm not really a guest. My life is ironic. I made plans to find freedom and end
