Ilsa Madden-Mills

o matter the road you take, it doesn’t matter if it’s beautiful or ugly, hard or smooth, paved or pitted with ruts—it’s your road to take. What matters is how it ends.

My subconscious has always known to flee when I pass him in the hall, to run like the hot winds of hell are at my back.

I’m empty, my body unable to resist him putting me in his car, snapping the seat belt around me. He speaks, maybe my name, asking me questions, but I can’t think straight. I can’t do…anything.