“Why don’t you tell me about yourself? Who is Mary?”
“I,” the words tumble through my mind. Things I’ve done? No! I am not defined by them. They are outside of me. Not part of me. Not any more.
“Don’t,” that also isn’t right. I did. A lot of times. A flush of shame, a memory of fear washes through my skin. I sweat. Like I did that time. All those times.
“Know,” how I got here, why I did what I did. What I thought I’d achieve.
I look down at my handcuffed hands, folded demurely in my lap.