She sat there; empty gun shells scattered around her like an almost comfortable carpet. Her hair, golden as the sun, swam in the air around her, like an unperturbed aura. One side of her face was a bit décalée; a cheekbone lower than the other, an eye lazier than the other, and a smile so asymmetrical it made her look like she lived to relish in the lament around her. The stench of war and metal and chemicals soaked in her clothes and in her hair, it crept through her pores and she carried it with her like a good omen.
By Hajar Chadlaoui