I made sure everyone was asleep before I tried again. I had nothing to carry just the weight of uncertainty. No one knew how miserable I was here. The reservation was my home land – but that was all.
My hand hugging the door knob I took one last glance at the black mold on the walls. The black mold was years of dreadful sighs. The black mold was our dirty hair, our dirty skin and our sensitive hearts. The door creaked and I knew then that I had no choice but to run for I did not want anyone to say they saw me leave. The last thing I heard was my mother’s foot steps running across the rotting floor. I wondered when she looked out the window if she knew her son was dying. I wondered if tomorrow night she would leave too.
About the author:
Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. Her work has been published in The Jet Fuel, The Burningword Literary magazine, The Squawk Back, The East Coast Literary Review, Conclave: A Journal of character and others. Besides writing, she has plans to become a photographer.You can reach her on her LinkedIn page here