We Don't Talk About Anna

I walked past the bed, running my hand absentmindedly across the dusty comforter. I shouldn't be in here, I knew that; I didn't need a rusty old padlock on the door to tell me that much. But something, almost otherworldly, had pulled me down the long dark hallway and into this room. Something wanted me here.

I moved around the end of the bed and then proceeded to the far side by the window. The window was shut, black curtains drawn across the glass and thick metal bars covering the fabric so that it could never be opened. What was this, a prison cell?

Next to the bed was a small nightstand, upon which was an old picture frame, one of those with the finely finished gold edges with such intricate designs. I picked it up, feeling years of dust falling into my hands as I did so. Underneath the glass was a torn photo of a young couple and a small child, each with smiles painted across their porcelain faces.

I felt a warm breath twist around my ankle from underneath the bed.

My breathing stopped.

I froze.

I wasn't alone.

"No one talked about Anna, ever. It was like she never existed."

✗ the living || ✗ the dead