Eleven months. Forty-seven weeks. Three hundred and thirty-four days.
I looked out of the window of my lavish apartment located in the middle of the jungle of high buildings, streets, and cars. People were milling in front of every shop window, preparing for Christmas time.
It appeared so insignificant to me. I watched the hunt for presents that didn’t concern me anymore.
I felt trapped in this town, in this world of consumption. I dreamed about lush forests, the blue of the sky peeping through branches, wet soil under my feet… about hands trailing their way over my body, skin touching skin, bruising kisses… The town was a prison—Gray, cold, and sour.
For eleven months, I had been making breakfast and morning coffee myself. My rifle was stored away in a closet, away from the eyes of
