I'm looking down through the blue gloom to a heart-shaped sea anemone that blooms purple like a familiar bruise.
Bucharest is a spider's web heavy with dew. It mirrors the sky; a black expanse littered with glass, the blight mark of a fallen chandelier. A cracked wind-shield.
Most mornings I wake at dawn. My sister snores opposite me in the double bed she claimed. "But I sleep diagonally!" "That's not a disability." There's no reasoning with some people.
The third and final part of this series. "I wake at dawn, still feeling the burn of a bullet in my arm – frantic fingers search, but find only a chicken-pox scar."