Writing through chemo and drugs has been one of the hardest writing challenges of my life. All I want to do is sleep. And tomorrow I finally go back to work. I’ve got some plot tangles to sort out. Eventually. Thank you for reading though. Knowing just one person is reading keeps me going.
In the next to last locker, Hannah found a intricately hand-stitched bag. The fabric shimmered when she touched it. She looked back at all the open lockers. She’d take whatever would fit in the bag. She’d return everything to the rightful owners when she could, but for now she wanted evidence.
The red hood, the shoes, the books, the combs, the mirror, all went into the bag, and the bag never felt any heavier or full. Hannah laughed. She felt happy.
The door opened without a sound. She listened for the people who were surely still hunting her, but the basement halls stayed silent. She debated. Getting out and running home would probably be the smartest thing to do. Her grandmother, however, remained somewhere above, closed up in a room, believing no one was ever going to save her.
By this time, Hannah had convinced herself that her grandmother was alive and in the Asylum and ready to be saved. What would happen after that, she didn’t think.
She’d unlock every door in the Asylum if she had to. Why not save everyone? Didn’t everyone deserve saving? It didn’t occur to her that while some of the rooms might have held harmless grandmothers, not every old woman was harmless.