Illusion

It began with a room, the room where she writes. I had different views of her room, sometimes that was a prison. Gazing through a window with bars, her only solace seeing the sky. She wrote of sunrises and sunsets, as if those were tender kisses. Then the dark suffocating room where she hid, fearful of being found. A heavily draped room, where no sunlight filtered. Bleak, mysterious, and dangerous, the room where she shivered and wept, afraid the demons would engulf her. When she opened the window to write of her longing, warm light glazed the room. Her longing etched into my heart. I had never before witnessed such longing.

This is her story, the glimpses she gave from her room. Her name is fiction and her life real. You ask is her story real? Within the lines are many truths.