Brazil, 1684

They said the scars on her back and face might fade with time. There was no estimate, though, for the ones cutting through her insides. These wounds on her heart and gut would pour out into her until she had been filled with blood, or at least that was how it felt.

They gave her food and drink, medicines if they thought she needed it. But she could no longer taste the meals or beers, could not understand the kind and probing words they said. She just, most days, sat by the river alone and watched them fish, waiting to snap and realize it was just a dream. 

Perhaps, she had thought, she really had snapped already. Maybe it was from something that had rooted in her long ago, starting the first time she opened her eyes and met the gaze of...

Please subscribe to keep reading.