Men in perfectly tailored, well-ironed pants yank my flailing arms behind my torso and lock my bony wrists together with a holographic chain. I, Abby Norman, had broken code number 19 of Liberian law. According to them I interfered with scientific study and disturbed the public. In my point of view, all I did was share my flashes with people until the puzzle was joined together like a force of gravity to a mass. Now at 22 years of age, my only family had been disappointed in me. They looked at me how ones facial expression turns when touching old, chewed-up gum coated in lint beneath an old desk. Was I a shame? Am I considered radical? All I did was do what the pieces said to me logically... It had hit me hard in the face that I was arrested for speaking my thoughts. We are all already enslaved, Liberians with the beautiful shiny eyes of pure emerald. Would I ever smell the sweet maple my mother used in her lumpy lukewarm oatmeal before I was shipped to my job?
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