Ashes of Our Past

campfire-camping-fire-3967By Donald Jessop

The ash floated on the wind and settled on her face, mixing with the tears and blood.

“He touched me.”

The roaring of the fire had died down to the crackle of embers as the last of the collapsed roof burnt itself out.

“He touched me.”

The chains on the door were blackened with soot, but they had stayed in place, just like the chains on her heart.

No one touches me.”

The gasoline can lay discarded at her feet when they found her three hours later standing in the falling snow.

“No one,” she whispered.

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