>>Ariston – Years Ago
I remember the sound of my breathing more than the shouting.
My chest was heaving—lungs burning, like I'd been running, even though I was just standing there. Blood dripped from the lower edge of the small brick clutched in my hand, the red thick and dark, trailing down to stain my already filthy sleeve.
The nuns stood in front of me, their black silhouettes blurred in the edges of my vision. They were yelling—I knew that. Their mouths were moving wildly, hands flying, fingers pointing. But I couldn't hear them.
Just the sound of my breath.
In. Out. In. Out.
Behind them, the children stood in a clustered line, wide-eyed and silent. One of them was on the ground, curled up, hands pressed to the side of his head where the blood flowed freely through his fingers.
He'd called me a thing.
A mistake. A freak.
He wasn't the first.
