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Summary
He was leaning over me, and what I could register was the feeling of the ends tickling my face. It was, for whatever reason, enough to distract me from the hellbent level of pain I was in. A polite gesture in my state of intense vulnerability.
“What do you remember?” He screamed at me.
My brain had been split in two. Or at least, it felt like it. Physically, and in the realm of somewhat coherent thought despite the searing sensation of hot pokers piercing through my insides. Because I did remember.
My name was Ramona Zamfir. I was 22 years old. And I died out there.