She drove. She knew her escape would not go unnoticed. Not for long anyway. Her face felt as though it was being blitzed by a barrage of hot sandy air. Despite its velocity it seemed stagnant. Dead. Maybe the ability to move is not a sure sign of life: the faster you move the faster you die. Speed may mean freedom of the soul. But the soul only becomes free after it is spared the burden of its body.

Sign posts flashed by too fast to read. The names were unfamiliar dusty shapes. Not that she could read. She used to be able to. But that was before…

Twelve years without books. Almost 5 years without daylight. She could barely be considered the same person as before. If she wasn’t the same person as before does that exonerate her of her crime? The crime that she can no longer remember. But still haunts her.