“How did I get here? Too many times of the world painting life in bleak pain and despair,” her wrinkled hand passed over a face lined with history and sorrow.
I looked down at my own hands, fingers marked with blots of ink. I never managed to learn how to hold writing implements far enough from the tip.
Mrs. Glendale leaned forward and her hand touched my knee. The attendant didn’t flinch but I held my breath and wondered, again, what made me choose the asylum for the criminally insane for my project.
“Whatever happens, child,” she whispered, “remember it is best for your heart to brandish hope, not revenge.”