So, back on my island. A sixteen-year-old girl who looks to be a little older but also aged at the same time, after all I have been through. The constant fatigue, the lying awake, the tenseness, the illnesses, the vain longing and sincere desire to write, to read, to do something for me have all together been imprinted in my look, on my face and body, in all my being. Height-wise, I’m rather short for my age. “Her development is delayed,” had said the doctor at the house where I worked. What is development? A bus to delay? If so, it can come later. So, I am short, too weak, blackened, with my eternal long tails pulled and tied to the back of my head, almost reaching down to my knees.
developmentAs soon as I get comfortable at home on the island, I’m looking for my teacher. She is the pers
