White into Gray
She’s still there. She’s always there. Same as yesterday and the day before that and the day before that and . . . sitting at the end of the mattress, staring with one vacant eye at the wall across from them. Tangled hair, dark and dripping with water, hangs limply over her face, veiling the other eye.
My first ever publication, this was written in a workshop where the only real prompt was to keep in under a thousand words (turned out a bit longer, but not too bad), and to come out of the workshop with something I could immediately submit somewhere. Ended up being a while before that happened, and a couple of years before it actually got published. A very modest beginning.
Not sure where the original idea came from, but I remember having the image in my head of the main character sitting on the bed in his jail cell with whatever it is (ghost, memory, guilty conscience) sitting there next to him.
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