It’s a black night and the wind is vile. The waves must be twenty feet high. We’re tipping, staggering, flying down each angry wave and my stomach keeps bottoming out like we’re in a plummeting elevator. Our little boat, Amazing Grace, isn’t so amazing right now …

It was a cool summers night and although the doors of the holding facility were open, the bars of my cell were asphyxiating. I couldn’t take being locked up. I just couldn’t take it. I desperately craved the freedom of the road again and I knew I had to escape …

I’m going to die, I thought sadly. The sadness actually surprised me more than the thought itself. I wasn’t panicking, I wasn’t stressed. I wasn’t kicking and screaming with every ounce of energy I had to prevent my untimely death. I’d simply accepted that I was going to die.

© Torre DeRoche 2017. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce any material from this blog without written permission.