Another week, another seven days that just pass by outside these prison walls. I hardly notice time when I'm alone, but the house still smells of oak and vanilla. Occasionally I put on one of mother's silk blouses and pretend I'm famous, but no one is there to see me so I undress again. From the balcony I can see all the work that has to be done in the garden, the work Hernan is supposed to do. I close the doors and the curtains behind me and concentrate on breathing.
The lush flowers in mother's bedroom window never die because they're made of plastic.