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Horror on memory lane.

Walking through the vast expanse of dry sand, the wind thought it amusing to blow in a fashion imitating a pacing man. As I tried to get my hair to listen to me and not the wind, I craned my neck forward with hands over my eyes I tried to make out the figure approaching me. It floated gracefully through the wafts of wind.  The dress, unlike mine grazed the ground beneath her as though she was an angel sent from the firmaments.

The wind now blew forward causing her dress to cling to an hourglass figure on bulky legs. She raised a toothpick- like hand and waved. I was frozen dead in my tracks. Did I know her? Upon more squinting and hair battling, I saw a plate-round face mapped with feather like features crowned with a nose whose brother seemed to be the knife.

Familiarity immersed me like a tsunami would immerse an entire town. At that moment I could feel my stomach threatening to reveal my last meal. She was me.

My face must have revealed bibles about my thoughts because, with the strength of a god, she seized my right hand and began trudging me back the way she had come.  She strutted through her part of town as I cowered and reeled backward as mocking grins and disdainful words were thrown at me. I thought I had but forgotten this memory. On man in particular was the crème del la crème of that memory. His head stood above all the rest, his grin caused the married to have second thoughts and his candour held my heart captive when was not directed at me.  In a brutal, unforgiving, cruel argument he preyed on my legs. The entire crowed roared with laughter. Humiliated, shattered and torn, with my head hung low and tears streaming inconspicuously down my face, I wobbled away like a boxer who had been through his last fight.

Collapsing like a sack of potatoes on the dirt trodden path, she picked me up and like a trophy held me above her head –strutting through the street. I felt like Jesus on the cross – rejected and neglected.

Barely making it out of memory lane, trailing on all fours, I resembled a domestic abuse case. My face was battered, beaten and bruised.

The shackles on my feet promised, “You’re not free of us yet”.

My claws dug into the earth caked ground – wishing, wanting- to stay root there like an ancient oak tree, as the memories pulled me back by my hind legs. It started again.

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