Tzafirah

My friends took me in readily and happily. They brought me to a nice, green park with a magnificent view where cliffs met the ocean. I washed up carefully, noticing that my wounds were healing more quickly than they had before... youknowwhat had happened. They were all smiles and ogles as we paced slowly back to the encampment, acting like they'd never seen a girl before.

The Derelicts made me a nice structure out of cardboard and other miscellany items. Someone had even drawn a picture of a curtained window on the side of the cardboard with chalk, to make it a bit more festive, I suppose. But it was a place to rest my head and dwell. Dwelling on my past turned my stomach in knots. Soon, I was unable to tolerate the thoughts running through my brain, the visions that I don't even want to mention, and had to leave my little ramshackle hut to be among my new caravan.

Very few questions were asked, but I couldn't muster the voice to answer them. I had to write in the dirt with a stick, or spell words with pebbles. They wanted to know my name, and I gave them my birth name, a name no one knew back home. No one could pronounce it properly, but Patrick, the Derelict that found me, said it perfectly.

Tzafirah.

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