Glancing down at my forearm, I remember the exquisite agony of twisted, reddened skin.
I flinch, though it’s a softer assault against my cheek than before.
“We must get together, I’m dying to hear your goss!”
Funny that… she never listened to anything I said. Even when I begged her to stop.
“And your hair really suits you like that…”
As I recall she liked it better in clumps, clutched victoriously in her hand.
The mist clears, and I find my voice, a clearer, stronger voice now.
“I’m sorry… I think you may have mistaken me for someone else.”
Lovely to see Friday Fictioneers getting the recognition it deserves on WordPress the other day. You must be very proud Rochelle; recognition of the hard work you invest in keeping this site going.