Every night’s the same, curled in too-rough sheets and too-thin blankets, falling into sleep to moans and screams. We dream behind locked doors. Worse are the prisons of our own minds, which keep us hostage to the whims of institutions.
I am out first each morning at the click of the door. My slippered feet pad quickly to the dining hall. Guzzling oatmeal and gulping coffee, soon I sit at my favorite easel, the one by the window with the best light.
I’m lost in Maestra Madonna’s slender white neck. One day I’ll paint my way out of this place.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the personable host of Friday Fictioneers.