The sound and stench of that musty place still haunt my dreams. It isn’t on any map, I’ve checked. A nameless scrap of land ringed by ocean. That wet sand reek, the sting of saltwater biting into my wounds as we crawled under rusted barbed wire. All seven of us. Eight years old at the time.
The training ground buzzed with our cries at dawn as we drilled combat moves before daylight touched the sky.
The commander barked orders over our heads, “ on your feet! Move!”
We fought one another, learned to carry weapons, to endure pain, to slip into places unseen, to do the impossible.
Now I wake every morning scanning corners, checking shadows, making my bed first and planting small traps to reveal manipulation. Freya calls it OCD. She doesn’t know, it’s muscle memory. A life before her.
Acco
