As a child, she clapped to catch dust in the sun, opening her hands only to emptiness. The feeling is like that, and she cannot explain.
The first time Maria saw the man she loved, he was holding a long, flat knife between his teeth. With his only hand, he slammed the soldier’s head against the wooden bench. The soldier had been on top of her. He had found her alone in the washroom and shoved her backward onto the table, thrusting his hand up her skirt and rubbing so hard her blood wet his fingers. That was at the refugee camp, after the war. Read the story at Bethesda Magazine.
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