The prompt was Past.
This one is autobiographical.
It weighed upon her like so many rocks, stifling her breath, taking away her ability to think straight.
It wasn’t painful. It was more like breathing in toxic air every time she inhaled.
She inhaled more anxieties. She inhaled more poisonous memories.
Without an acute sense of identity, she was lost. Fallen to the ravages of time not well-spent.
What did she have to show for it? Not much.
A home of strife, burnt to the ground. It was never perfect, but it had been hers.
Her life was like that. She’d never build a better one on broken foundations.
© 2017 Heather Stephens