Hidden

After my dream of the desert, there was only darkness. There were no dreams, no nightmares. It was a strange state of suspension, and I wasn't sure whether to be grateful or disappointed.

Whatever I was, I wasn't in pain.

Of course, I wasn't happy, either. But I'd rather be not happy than in pain, and I didn't attempt to rouse myself from that state.

Finally, after, apparently, three more days (this is what the woman told me), I woke.

And I stayed awake.

I was given the best meal that I had eaten in years. I scarfed it down in a mere minutes, and she fed me some more. Then, I showered, before the woman put some sort of medicine on all of the cuts that I had.

"Who did this to you, honey? Was it your drug dealer?" she asked me. Concern was so thick on her voice that it was almost smothering.

She thought I was on drugs? But then I realized that the cuts, the bruises, the purple half-moons under my eyes, the thin, emaciated look of my body; I must've appeared as if I were a drug addict.

"No, no, no....I'm not a drug addict. I've never done drugs."

"You can tell me, sweetie, we won't judge you. Who was it?"

"Um...."

I wanted to tell her, this kind woman who had taken such good care of me. But I couldn't refer to the old man like that. The term 'father' wasn't applicable. The monster didn't deserve it.

"No one. No one did."