Escape

​es·cape
əˈskāp/
verb 1.
break free from confinement or control.

An Escape 
Pascale Malenfant

as i get into the car to head to school
and my father clicks the radio to New Country 94
the raspy-voiced singer details his lust for his blood relative.
all i can think of
is an escape.

as i drift off to sleep in french class
and my teacher wakes me with a question regarding a french grammar exception
that i know will make no difference in my education
all i can think of
is an escape.

as i sit on the oc transpo
and an average-at-best-looking man twice my age approaches me
his words propose “casual coffee,” but his eyes suggest “casual pedophilia.”
all i can think of
is an escape.

as i work the cash register at the hudson’s bay
and an elderly customer asks me if she can feel “the youthful skin that frames my face”
i refuse, and she asks if she can speak to my manager.
all i can think of
is an escape.
as i sit in my basement playing skyrim (again)
and my father begins to lecture me on how journalism is a dying art
i read it on zerohedge.com, a credible conspiracy website”
all i can think of
Is an escape
as i lay in my bed at night
and think of the absurdity that i attract
and my inability to cope with my crumbling sanity
​all i can think is
dear god, just let me escape.

Photo by Lauren Reeve

Methods of Escapism
Lily Inskip-Shesnicky

Like the imprint of a real ghost,
over time
the idea of you faded.
Yet in my attempts to escape,
I became my own poltergeist:
who I was when I knew you
watching my every step.
You and I are the memory
that taps on my window
at night, nails on glass,
the press of a fingertip
against the pane.
The person that surfaces
in every unknown stranger,
in every misplaced face,
in every second glance.
The fevered rush
of being followed,
assiduously
at my heels. ​

​Mad Dash by Sage Kirchmann

Chimney
Isabelle Walma

My first thought was, too many cookies.
My next thought was, Are those footsteps?
The hard brick of the chimney shaft pressed through my gloves as I shifted my position uncomfortably. I could almost feel the beginnings of my hat sliding off my head.
The maybe-footsteps intensified. I listened intently, trying to place the heavier, slow footfalls of an adult or the creeping, light-footed ones of a child. A child might not be so bad. Her or his parents would reassure them it was only a dream.
An adult of course… there would be some explaining to do.
My sack weighed heavily on my shoulders as I debated. I hoisted it up the chimney as far as I could, then tried to squeeze up after it.
No dice. I was well and truly stuck. My waist was caught on the bricks. Maybe it was my belt, maybe it was my fifth cookie, sitting comfortably in my belly.
Either way… those were definitely footsteps. Oh boy.
Put. Put. Put.
Okay, a child’s then. Not so bad. I could deal with that.
“Santa, mister? Is that you?”
High and bright, just like every child’s should be. I held my breath, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to drag my way up a couple more centimetres, just into the darkness, just out of sight.
“Santa? Did you get stuck in the chimney?” The child giggled, a tinkling sound not unlike that of the bells on my sleigh.
I bit my lip, an itch beginning to creep along my neck. Of course, if I itched it now, the game was up, my handholds would slip, and a Christmas miracle would truly come to pass.
I shimmied, trying to release my belt from the rough bricks. I wish there was a way to notify the chimney companies that their chimneys were not very Santa-friendly.
Unfortunately, the whole ‘not-being-real’ would be a bit of a problem.
“Oh! Santa, did you eat all the cookies?” Another giggle. “Is that why you’re stuck?”
This kid is pretty smart.
But I’ll have to be smarter to not get caught. My neck-itch burns, insistent and unyielding.
I shift, trying to balance on three limbs, so I can just… got it! Relief washes over me as I furiously scratch at my neck and I quickly replace my hand on the sooty side of the chimney.
A sound similar to sand shifting produces itself and I feel a little powdery punch in the nose. Soot.
Then it’s my nose itching. Not just an itch though…
Achoo!

Crash
​Brenna Hynes
​
The walls have been compressed, they reach in to touch me- the glass is sticking into my skin. Blood splashes spatter the car seats and dashboard, I’m not sure if it’s the taxi driver’s or mine. I push myself off the ceiling with aching arms, purple and blue already painting my skin. I slouch against the seat and take a breather. My lungs burn as the smoky air fills them, then my heart jumps- smoke means fire, and fire plus gasoline equals BOOM. As my heart races faster, I sit myself up- the numbness of adrenalyn pumping in my veins. I sit up and press my foot against the somewhat shattered window- a few pieces have snapped off, but most of the glass that litters the cabin is from the window that my taxi driver’s head has punctured. I suck in a deep breath and slam my boot into the glass, more hairline fractures spider-web away, one more kick and the window shatters outward.
​ I drag myself out on my stomach and elbows, the tiny shards of glass slicing my leather jacket. Once my feet are free of the crushed sedan I stand, the soles of my boots crushing the glass that litters the pavement. I turn and look at the car which now could be mistaken for a soup can put in a trash compactor. A fire is creeping closer and I back away quickly, thank god I do- the car explodes in a show of red and orange and a shower of glass, which I turn away from- raising my arm to protect my face as the force of the explosion knocks me back onto my butt. I slither back on my elbows and butt, kicking at the glass-carpeted ground. Once the heat no longer threatens to singe my eyebrows I straighten up and thank the universe that I escaped in time.

Methods of Escapism
Jessie Dudding

Warm air,
feet bare

Cool breeze,
loose tees

Shining sun,
messy bun

Glistening water,
days get hotter

Icy drink,
don’t need to think

It’s an escape.
Not from something, but from everything

A Pocket-Sized Escape
Areeg Al-Zayadi

my confidence blasts beyond my height.
laughing so loud,
the volume of everything else lowers to the minimum​.
my smile, 
unable to leave my face.
the peacefulness loops in my mind.

my five foot three body laying on a public bench
with no shame.
only intention to find somewhere else to sleep tonight,
as my heart rate slows down,
my eyes struggle to stay open,
only to look up at a stranger’s concerned face.

to simply unwind,
turns to simply take something.

my other world where I escape is pocket sized
I carry it around me
an instant switch,
i fear of turning it off.
my confidence blasts beyond my height.
laughing so loud,
the volume of everything else lowers to the minimum.
my smile, 
unable to leave my face.
the peacefulness loops in my mind.

my five foot three body laying on a public bench
with no shame.
only intention to find somewhere else to sleep tonight,
as my heart rate slows down,
my eyes struggle to stay open,
only to look up at a stranger’s concerned face.

to simply unwind,
turns to simply take something.

my other world where I escape is pocket sized
I carry it around me
an instant switch,
i fear of turning it off.

Untitled 
Jason Domingo

Feeling is a concept which rarely ever truly penetrates the prison of the flesh. To be able to sincerely express one’s self is to accomplish something nearly impossible. Emotion is limited to the human body, just aching to escape. But the pencil, once held, becomes an attachment of the soul, enabling the ability to describe feeling to the fullest. It allows one to pour out every ounce of emotion onto paper, capturing every drop of sentiment. The pencil, allows someone to transcend the emotional restrictions we put on ourselves, allowing us to escape ourselves, just for a little.

Edge of the Lake
(Photo and poem) Marija Bolic

You stand, 
stomach churning, 
chest tightening
hair on your skin tingling;
you’re buzzing.

Toes rocking back and forth 
at the edge 
of the careening lakewater,  
swishing and swirling
against the speckled sand.

Eyes pinched 
trying to shut out
the idea of going in,
yet itching
to feel
the wind wrap
around you
as the alluring 
water beckons
you in.

Justifying your fear
with the cold;
trembling,
teeth chattering.


Shaking 
like the leaves, desperately 
clinging onto 
the last 
of summer as 
you stare 
at the whirling water 
enticing you.

Feeling the blood pulsing
and pounding
through your body,
overpowering 
the muffled sounds
of your voice. 


Before you can 
stop
you hear the 
booming
of your feet 
slapping 
the sand, 
ripping 
through the 
wild air, 
water 
pushing
you back.


A scream 
splits
the air in half 
slowly dissolving 
into an uncontrollable laugh.

Arms raised 
you twirl, 
water sprinkling the air.

Standing 
utterly in awe
of your reality, 
colours melting
in the sky. 


In that moment 
your reality 
was your escape.

Untitled 
Ava Bebbington

So, how about the weather?
An inward groan.
It’s been far too long;
Please let me go.
Anything is better than
the endless exchanging of pleasantries,
A conversation of words with no substance.
We’ve gone through it all,
Assured each other that we are both
Just fine, thank you.
We’ve acknowledged the presence
Of many a mutual friend,
They’re just as well as they were
Five minutes ago, last time you asked.
How’s your workload? Got much homework? 
Yes, I’ve said so already.
Perhaps there’d be less if you didn’t insist
On standing, here, talking,
For God knows how long.
I can think up a billion things I’d rather be doing,
But here I am, and there they go -
The minutes slip away, minutes of my life;
I’ll never get them back.
Cool, okay, nice. 
These words have a beautiful finality,
They mean that it’s over, we have no more to say.
But you’ve said them all several times,
You’re like a broken record,
Cool, okay, cool, nice, okay. 
Did no one tell you that those signify
The moment when we say goodbye and walk away?
But no, you keep going, rehashing the same topics.
It’s always like this, every time.
I glance about for a distraction, perhaps I’ll shout,
Look over there! Oh my god! 
And you’ll turn, then I’ll run.
But no need: I see my friend, I call out!
Will she save me? Please, please, please …
Does she know that she’s my only means of escape?
Will she save me from this hell?
I plead to her with my eyes as you say it again.
So, how about the weather? 

Untitled 
Gabby Calugay-Casuga

I never actually lived in my childhood home. It was never actually mine. Leaning near the bottom of a hill called Northcliffe, this house was always a comfortable escape. I could leave the suffocating boredom of Ottawa without needing to walk blindly into another city.
All the floors in the house used to be covered in this worn ugly red carpet. I remember the childhood fascination when they took out the carpet to put hardwood floors. I thought, “You mean you can take off the floor and not fall into the basement?” It would take me years before I finally put together how floors actually work.
The house has a distinct smell. Everyone I’ve asked who stayed there agrees but they can never describe exactly what it is. It could be the smell of the blanket I’d stay stayed under all Sunday while watching the animals run along the telephone line outside
Northcliffe would truly come alive at night. The parents threw party after party. Bored with the adult’s conversations, the cousins claim the basement as our headquarters. The basement was a place of inconveniencing the grown ups and scheming. I remember squishing all the cousins into the tiny first floor powder room and pulling ourselves out the window, one by one. We each had bets placed on how many laps around the block we could do before someone realized we were gone. After two laps, we were all dragged back into the house. The cousins retreated back to the basement and used an ouija board to contact our dead grandpa. As far as anyone else knows, it worked.
I never actually lived here but it still stung to sell this house. Though, it was time to move on. Papa Alex’s ghost says goodbye from the basement and the remnants of that awful red carpet are removed. Walking out of that house, I silently thank it for the years of comfortable escape.

Untitled 
Moira Geraghty

Dusty old piano keys
Umbrellas in the rain
Warmth in sunlit patches
Frost on windowpanes
The mystery of a stranger's smile
A velvet star-filled space
Fingers trailed across a page
A paint and tear-streaked face
Technicolour memories
There’s echoes of them still
So crevices and footholds
Are found despite the chill
Balancing on branches
Ignoring scraped knees
In the end it's worth it
To peer through the sun-veined leaves
It's easy to believe we’re trapped
We’re given leaden wings
But finding an escape
Is to find joy in mundane things

Photo by Emily Eddy

Escape
​Emily Eddy
​
I only have some chalk,
​But with it I can fly,
Just sketch a couple of balloons,
The ground becomes the sky,
I’ll chance the strings and hold on tight,
The balloons will pull me high,
I’ll go anywhere and everywhere,
I’ll escape into a new fantasy,
Who knows what I will find?
No, reality I can not deny,
But dreams do not lie,
I only have a some some chalk,
But with it I will fly.

Iambic Tetrameter #3 
By Gene Case

I seek escape. I search its name
To lead me boldly t’wards acclaim,
And to evade a muted life
Although success cuts like a knife.

The herald Fame, when well deserved,
May raise the truths its poet served--
And I seek that good shepherd there
To guide me out of duller fare.

I cannot fathom life, content,
If I have no resources spent;
If I have not changed hopes or dreams--
How worthless satisfaction seems!

And yet I know the warnings well.
I know the pain, the heartache swell--
Though just the words, and not the tune
Of self-destructive glory boon.

I hear my own compassion cease
Within just this, a musing piece;
Mundanity I must avoid--
Or is it me, of heart devoid?

Photo by Rishika Achyuthan

​

All Who Wander Are Lost
Erin Vandenberg

Photo by Emma Wilson

Escape to the Lake
Elizabeth Tackabury

The workload from school had started to get unbearable. End of year exams were approaching. They were not close enough to be cramming for, but close enough that the stress was weighing down on me. I was becoming more and more aware of the days passing by. An escape was what I needed, and I knew exactly how to get one. My car door slammed shut behind me and I paused to look up at my cottage. Just the sight of it sent a warm, cozy feeling surging through me. I had so many memories at our family’s cottage. I’d spent every summer here since I was five, and could still remember every detail. The fun, the laughter, no matter what had been going on with the family at home, it was as if soon as we came here all of our problems vanished. The gravel driveway crunched under my shoes, the sound accompanied shortly after by two more sounds of feet coming up behind me. After taking my time climbing the few steps onto the porch, I approached the tall door. As I reached in my pocket and fiddled with the key, my two best friends caught up to me. “I love this place,” Adelyn sighed beside me, staring up at the cottage. She, unlike Cody, had been here before. We'd been best friends for as long as I could remember, so of course she had. The door clicked open and before I even placed one foot inside, the corners of my mouth pulled up into a smile. Stress, school, work… I couldn't even remember what those were anymore. The floor creaked under my feet just as I remembered it , and the place still smelled of family, friends, and fun times. There was a family portrait on the wall across the room, everyone in it smiling just as we always did at this place. “I'll race you to the river!” Cody suddenly hollered, snapping me from the thoughts. We hadn’t even unloaded the car or had anytime to relax, but we were in no hurry. An amused grin spread across my face. “Your on,” I challenged without hesitation. The sound of our laughter echoed all around us, as my best friends and I sprinted across the freshly green grass, water glistening on the lake barely in view. An escape was what I'd needed, and an escape was what I'd gotten. ​

Trapped
Braelyn Cheer

I am chained, enslaved, by the thoughts in my head
Trapped in the confines of my own mind
Suffering in the darkness and drowning over time
Suffocating, fighting, dying, dead

Outside the bars of my forever tomb
Ghosts of memories haunt and loom
Skulking figures with outstretched claws
Hulking beasts with fiery paws

I am plagued with sadness
The feelings relentless
My only company my tortured soul
And even that begins to grow cold

The ghost of its form lingers in the air
As its life fades away, it's spirit gone
Surely as the life in its eyes that once shone
Nothing more than a memory, with no one to care

                                     Photo by Mikaela Lewis

Untitled
Addy Marshall

Why isn’t anyone wearing Christmas sweaters? I was sure Janet said that this was an ugly Christmas sweater party! Why is everyone dressed so nicely?!
Walking through the wide hallway of Janet Jefferson’s condo, I see very familiar faces from the office just… glaring at me. Even my boss gives me a weird look. I try to ignore it, but once I reach the main dining area, I suddenly clue in of what has happened.
Janet played me.
A million thoughts swarm my mind as I try to decide whether to just make a run for it, or find Janet and make a total scene. But with the joyful version of Michael Buble's ‘Let it Snow’ playing in the background, it really didn’t help me choose.
She’s my best friend. My co-worker. My colleague! She would never do this to me! I think to myself.
I finally decide that just standing here in the middle of all the commotion is not helping the situation at all, so I just head out the way I came. Janet couldn’t expect me to stay after the stunt she pulled on me, right?
I storm off towards the hallway, dreading the thought of having to see Janet tomorrow at the office. But right then, I notice that everyone’s attention isn't on me anymore.
I turn around to see what everyone's smiling at, and there she is.
Standing on a stool and what appears to be, preparing to do a toast. But that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that she told me to come to this Christmas party with my ‘ugliest christmas sweater’ yet everyone else got the drift that it’s a semi-formal event! Oh Janet, you better be prepared for the next Christmas party when it’s my year to host.

Our Two Types of Transport
Laura Slabbert

The best books are the ones that paint pictures in your mind, the ones that have you flipping through the pages so fast that you forget where you are, headphones pumping white noise to block out the regular chatter of the other passengers. Only the best books can take you into a whole other world without realizing it, until a bump in the road startles you, and you realized you’ve been on this bus for almost an hour. Even as the sun starts to set, you strain your tired eyes to make out the black uniform letters in the dark, and you hear her voice telling you “you’ve been reading with the lamp off again haven’t you? It’s a wonder you haven’t gone blind at this rate.” But you continue on to the next chapter, every now and then looking up to see how much longer until your stop.

Self-Discovery
Rebecca Kempe
​
“So, what made you decide to do the exchange?”
“I guess I always wanted to see France. I had all these elaborate fantasies of walking under the Seine in the moonlight... you know, all the usual clichés. I liked the experience I had... it just wasn’t what I imagined.”
“Well, we can’t all live in glass castles, can we?”
“No, we can’t. Sadly. What’s with you wanting to come here? I just don’t understand why you would want to pick Ottawa. It’s so boring here. You could have picked Toronto, or Montreal, or Vancouver... why here?”
“Well...  I guess I could have picked somewhere else. And I almost did. But Canada isn’t really a country you here very much about. You’re so... neutral.”
“Well, if we weren’t, I think we’d be completely screwed.”
“Well, there’s that. And at the beginning, I was incredibly excited to come here and witness a completely different culture. But I think there’s also always been an undertone of just wanting to get away from my family.”
“What do you mean? They were all so nice!”
“Yeah, well... I’m saying they’re not nice. They’re just...”
“Difficult?”
“If you want to put it that way, I guess. I mean, obviously things were a little bit different while you were there. But the thing is, I tend to disagree with my parents a lot, but there’s nothing I could do about and it’s been really bad for my emotional stability. Part of me thought it must be easier to just leave for two months. I know it sounds really mean, but... yeah.”
“Oh no! What do you mean?”
“Well, a lot of things, really. The atmosphere is not pretty sometimes. I remember I’d come home and get lectured on something... but I wouldn’t agree at all with my parent’s diagnosis of the situation. And our values don’t necessarily mesh very well, but I can’t just disagree with them. So what happens is I’m caught in this messed up middle where I’m trying to show my disapproval without them yelling at me and it’s better if I can just figure out some stuff on my own.”
“Yeah, I get that. There are some parts of growing up you can’t do while you live with your parents.”
“Exactly.”

                                              Photo by Tyler Scharf

The Window
Lilian Levac

There she sat, facing her open window, gazing out at the world. There she sat, reflecting on the dreary, dragging days of her plain life. Nothing happened to her. Not ever was there even the slightest hint excitement, with one exception. She would sit, facing her open window, gazing out at the world. There she would sit, reflecting on the bright, buzzing days of everyone else’s colourful lives. Every evening she would watch the people pass, imagining their stories, their families, their friends, their daily routines. She would create stories that linked them all together in the map of her reality. She would spin a tale about a corrupted man -- a supervillain -- and all his misguided deeds. Then, she would see his young daughter, fatally ill, begging only for one thing from him before she meets her end, which she knows is near. She knows his struggle for enough power to make her final wish happen. She understands his pain and longing and grief and she also sees his downfall. The “superhero” of the story. The detective, determinedly unraveling the strings of his plan. Full to the brim of confidence, pride and knowledge. With his skill, he thinks he saving this city from something bound to tear it apart when really, all he is doing is shattering the one chance a lonely girl has at grasping joy for a fleeting second.
There she sat, facing her open window, gazing out at the world from her perch on the hospital room floor. There she sat, reflecting on the short, dready few days remaining in her darkening life, surrounded by the white walls and roof that chained her down and caged her in. There she sat, marvelling at the world that was just out of her reach, only a moment away, peering through the bars of her confinement. Her only escape to a better world. The window.

Oxford Street​​
Hayley Spenst

​The moment I stepped out onto the streets of London two years ago I knew, this is where I was meant to be. I loved every inch of the city; the mix of contemporary skyscrapers with structures that have stood for a thousand years, and how they settled harmoniously on the European skyline. I loved the double decker buses, (which come so scarcely here), that infest the busy streets of the metropolis. I loved the food, particularly the fries. Sorry, chips. My favourite part though, was Oxford Street, which is a shopping hot shop in London. Though I did adored the shopping, that wasn’t the reason I loved it so much. It was because it was the only place that I didn’t feel like a tourist in. I wasn’t snapping pictures at every turn and trying to inhale as much of the city as one could in nine days. Instead, I blended into the crowd. I was distanced from those who saw this city as a beautiful getaway far from home and instead felt this city was to be my home. I could picture myself so vividly, five or ten years down the road, walking down that very street, doing some Christmas shopping after work before heading home to my apartment. Sorry, flat. I felt more connected to my future than ever before, more sure of my place in this world than I thought possible, and nothing was going to take it from me. Well, except for a plane ticket back to Ottawa.

Returning was bleak to say the least. It felt bare and strange. My world, before so small, had forever been expanded and Ottawa could no longer fill it. The magic of my hometown had evaporated, it couldn’t compare with what the world had to offer. Every bone in my body intends on returning, but five thousand kilometres and a high school diploma stand between that. So, in the meantime, London has not only become my future destination, but also my daydreaming mind’s favourite pitstop. When Ottawa feels suffocating and the winters are too cold and school is stressful and I need a momentary escape, I’ll close my eyes and imagine I am walking down Oxford street, back in London. Sorry, back home.

Photo by Andrew Hollinger

After Dark
Eman Elawad

​There are not many things my father and I both enjoy. My father loves Formula One, Sunday is always my father's Formula One day.
As a child, that annoyed me, I needed to watch my TVO kids, and Family everyday. Every Sunday my two brothers, and I would annoy my dad, telling him to “get off,” and “five more minutes only,” yelling at him, pulling even. This used to be almost a tradition. Now I watch Netflix.
We didn’t used to have much time together, it was mostly him and his boys, this changed, after I started going to Canterbury. My father picks me up now, I stay in his office until 8pm on an average day.
When I leave I put my books in my bag, put on my coat and proceed to go to the car. I don’t like being in the car without sound, whether it be speaking, or radio.
I prefer the radio, it is almost meditation for me. I can’t really explain it, the sounds from the radio mixed with the relaxation of a car ride soothes me. I have always been like this. As a child my parents took me on car rides to make me stop crying, to relax. It worked, and it still works.
At first I listened to 106.9, your normal pop hits, then 89.9, although 106.9 and 89.9 are practically the same. Pop doesn’t really help me relax, the identical jumpy beats that are repeated throughout every song nauseate me.
As if by chance, one day I went into the car, and the radio was set to 103.3. That’s when I was introduced to After Dark with host Odario Williams, I tune in every 8 pm, although it usually starts at 7:58.  After Dark ranges “from art-pop to avant-garde”, “pop to electronic”. As a person who considers herself to have an eclectic taste in music, I love this.
My nights are now filled with the smooth voice of Odario, the captivating beats that help me forget about the day, and focus on the now. An escape. I put the volume high enough to radiate through the car, to feel the bass in my chest. I look through the window, and see the streetlights casting light onto the road ahead, the dark sky, the buildings.
I look at my father, he does not look stressed, he looks free, and I can see in this moment we can understand each other.

Untitled
Hannah Angione

You can never escape it.

You can run until your lungs collapse, and still never escape it.

You can hide in the most remote place on earth, and still never escape it.

​You can travel the four corners of the globe, and never escape it.

No matter how hard you try, you can never escape it.

​You are the only thing you can never truly escape.

Escape
Alexandra Quinn
​
She ran down corridor after corridor, scurrying around every corner through the labyrinth. She could hear the pounding footsteps behind her- close behind her. Her lungs felt like collapsing, her calves burned. The sensation of pure panic rapidly spreading.

She continued, hallway after hallway, footstep after footstep, she ran. She knew every twist and turn of this maze and yet, couldn’t seem to escape. She could bend these walls if she wanted too but the exhaustion was too much. Her vision swam, attempting to regain focus. Her movements became clumsy, crashing from wall to wall.

She wasn’t going to make it.

The footsteps behind her grew louder. More taunting. Her lungs burned and throat felt like a desert. The soles of her feet becoming more sore with every footstep. In her hurry, blurry vision, and pain, she made the wrong choice.

Left.

She ran and ran to the end of the corridor. But as she rapidly approached the end, she realized there was no other turn. No other direction for her to outrun anymore. No way for her to avoid this any longer.

Dead end.

She pressed up against the wall, the cool rocks freezing her back through her shirt. She could hear it approaching ever so slowly. The panic in her grew, adrenaline flooding her.

As the shadows lifted, she saw it.

She saw herself, staring back at her. Her breath hitched, heart stopping in its tracks. She saw the inevitable truth looking her in the eyes.

There was no way to escape from herself.