They'd branded me like some kind of animal. Lower than an animal. A number.

his thumbs ran over my cheeks. Our foreheads touched. My dreamscape scorched. He set fire to the poppies

My father thought I would lead a simple life; that I was bright but unambitious, complacant with whatever work life threw at me. My father, as usual, was wrong.

Nothing’s worse than a story without an end.

They'd branded me like some kind of animal. Lower than an animal. A number.

I like to imagine there were more of us in the beginning. Not many, I suppose. But more than there are now.

I looked at him and he looked at me. A moment. A choice. My choice. His choice.