WIP

She feels like a gnarled tree. She twisted and clutched to protect herself but now, after all this time, if someone were to say – and they have not, but if they did – that she were safe, she’d find herself unable to straighten. The wind carries comments from passers by: look, there’s a tree shaped by knocks and storms, a survivor. This isn’t what she wants them to say; this was never what she wanted them to see.