Erna Brodber


When I saw my face on a body no more than two feet long, pumping its legs and crawling towards me, I knew the depths of their hatred: nobody cared enough about me to tell me. It had reached for my leg. I watched it reach for my knee in an effort to stand. I froze. At that moment Miss Cecilly, the dried up one, rushed into the dark gallery and snatched it up. God is good. I let myself out. Nobody should have me for a father.



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