Echo

What was I thinking? Well, maybe I wasn’t, again.

There isn’t much to see – desk with maps, empty bed, clothes thrown about – such richness so easily discarded. Not much left of such a great life, the life given for me, taken for mine.

Nothing has changed; I imagine he left orders. It’s been cleaned, alright, but not touched (I touch everything). What did he leave? Nothing he thought he couldn't take with him.

I shouldn’t be here, and for once in my life I want someone to come and yell at me. “Get out! Fool …”

But no one comes.




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