glacie
She watched from behind the bars, her face was wild and dirt smeared and her hair flew about her head almost like it was being manipulated by some power in the dank air that no one else could see. The reporter looked into the girl's eyes, and they were blank canvases. There was no color, no life, no spark. They looked like holes torn into dirty cloth. This was not a place for children. But she was not a child. No, she was not even human.
My mother makes pasta in the kitchen every third night. She says she doesn't know many recipes because her mother never taught her, but I think it's ok because I like pastas. She picks a different shape ever time, and this time it's bowties, like the one I have hidden in my underwear drawer for when I need to look fancy. I wore it only once, at the place where Daddy disappeared.