A drop in by any other name is still a drop in.
And certainly, the name of this one was generic enough to inspire a hope of spiritual mobility in those who were disadvantaged in the physical realm.
But those who were forced to call this place a temporary home did not find it much of a haven.
Inside there were little islands of cardboard boxes with men stranded on them.
She took a sharp turn and headed downstairs.
A lousy fallout shelter, she thought.
A lousy shelter, period.
Rumor was the interior plan of the basement was modeled after a fallout. Yet the cold air permeated the thin walls, the windows…
She sat on an uncomfortable chair, trying to center herself to some kind of inner peace. A faux meditative space that would act as camouflage to the surroundings.
But every millisecond some thing unknown made her skin crawl.
She couldn't tell if it was the loose sweater she wore, tickling her every few seconds. Or the familiar movement of a pedestrian aphid sauntering across her flesh.
Little insect fingers tapping against her flesh impatiently.
Sometimes she felt the movement a few layers beneath the surface of the trifold gray jeans, black pants, and stockings she wore.
Was it beneath all of those layers?Is it further still, beneath my skin?
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