Her husband, her master. His face has the quality of a blurred photograph, yet she remembers his rough hands. His rough, calloused hands on her soft breast. She shudders. Feeling foolish she starts through the alphabet, trying to associate a name with each letter: Albert, Benjamin, Charles, Donald… It feels as if every last cell of her brain was driven into illness. Her lack of memory fills her with silent dread. Not my mind, Dear god not my mind! She tries to compose herself. Ernest, Frank… Letter by letter she continues to analyze the sounds and impressions. What is this? Dear god. Dear Jesus, sweet Jesus. George, Harold… She begins to suspect the answer is beyond her reach. She sends out fingers of desire, need, thought- tries to project them into her past, pull out something stable. The images seep through her fingers like fine sand peppered with doubt. Irving, Johnothan, Kenneth, Lyle… She has a deep envy of the living. She is tired of her half-existence. She is tired of being. "I'm not doing this for you, I'm not doing this for myself, either. I'm asking you if you want me to leave this project because I want to protect my girls. They don't deserve to pay for my mistakes."Dylan stayed in silence, looking at me with an interrogative expression. I caught a shine on his eyes.He smiled: "Correct answer... But no, there is no need for you to leave. Your friends have worked hard, but so did you. You did what you could, to make a better future for yourself." Can I have one more kiss?"His lips met mine, in a blessing; now I could come back home happy.--------------------------If I survived that night, then I was really lucky, after all.Home sweet home.I'd left Dylan with the promise of meeting each other soon. The best part? I do not have his number and he doesn't have mine!He'll probably ask Robin to give him my number. He'll call me and I will absolutely pretend to be surprised.Wow, this was still like a dream, but... Oh, I had to inform my mother! My goodness,.
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