Amy

Dust

The dust motes, tiny dancers illuminated by a sliver of sunlight that filtered through the boarded-up window, were my constant companions in this desolate place. They twirled and swayed gracefully, performing a silent ballet in the stagnant air of a room forgotten by time. This space wasn’t a room in the conventional sense; it was more of a holding cell—a bleak, confining environment where moments stretched into eternity and memories festered like open wounds. The wallpaper, which may have once displayed a cheerful floral pattern, now hung in tatters, peeling away like sunburned skin to expose the raw, gray plaster beneath. Each strip curled lifelessly, a reminder of happier days long gone.

The floorboards groaned under my weight, warped and uneven as they creaked with every hesitant step. Each noise echoed through the stillness, a mournful lament—an auditory reminder of a life I could barely recognize. It was a chorus of echoes, whispering secrets I was not ready to confront. They seemed to hold onto the remnants of laughter and joy, now replaced by the heavy silence that enveloped me.

They say memories are like photographs, sharp and clear, frozen moments captured in time. For me, however, those memories resembled smudged charcoal sketches, with each edge blurred and every detail obscured by a thick haze of fear and confusion. The past felt like a distant landscape, shrouded in mist, where familiar faces and places floated in and out of grasp. Yet the feelings associated with those memories—the visceral imprints of terror, helplessness, and longing—remained painfully vivid, like splinters embedded deep beneath my skin, forever pricking at my consciousness and reminding me of my troubled existence.

I was five, maybe six years old, just a wisp of a child when they first sold me. It wasn't like selling a doll, although I was small enough to be mistaken for one. I was more akin to a discarded rag doll—unwanted, broken, and passed from hand to hand like an object of no value. Mama referred to this horrific transaction as “helping out,” her voice tight and brittle, as if she were trying to convince herself of the justifications behind her actions. I often saw her eyes avert, avoiding mine as if they contained a truth too painful for either of us to acknowledge.

Daddy, on the other hand, spoke rarely, choosing silence over validation. Yet his eyes—dark, bottomless wells—held a chilling coldness,