Basheera slipped into the cell again and as before the American turned towards her. She set the candle by the door and moved over to the sleeping mat....She tried to tell herself that she was anxious to get it over with, but in her heart of hearts, she knew she was just anxious to get started. He did not struggle or protest when she reattached the shackle to his wrist. When he was secured she moved the candle closer to them so she could see him better. She was pleased when he didn't struggle as. So this I write, what I know…what is me…as painful as it is going to be… I look at the journal before me, the latest of many I have hidden in a chest. Only this one unlike all the others is empty of words, with the exception of pretty phrases cut out of magazines and pictures of places I have yet to travel, haunts I have yet seen. It holds nothing of me. I fear my words from the prying eyes, and myself even. For my story is as sad as it is monotonous, I can’t bare to think of it myself some. More

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