Slave's Nightmare -

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Mama,” I whispered. My throat was dust. slave's nightmare

Because the nightmare was not the running. The nightmare was the waking. “Who is he

The faceless woman rocked faster. You, she said. Not with a mouth—with the air itself. That is you. Before you learned to run. Before you forgot how. “Who is he?” I asked. “Mama

I turned back to the boy. He lifted his head. His eyes were mine. But empty. So empty. Like two holes burned in a blanket.