"Write about a picture you tore up"

I thrust my fingers down into the bottom of my pockets. I really pushed my hands hard into them till the denim mouths bit deep red lines into the backs of my wrists. I wanted to whistle and step with overlong strides. I wanted to do a little soft-shoe shuffle at the bus-stop. I wanted the world to see that I was easy-going, that it was summertime and the living was easy.

My pockets were empty and I was footloose and fancy free. I was a fresh face in town and ready for a new start. My fingertips brushed casually along the seams of my pockets. I felt sand and furry lint trapped there. The sand was Mexican sand - little tiny rocks I'd carried with me from the life I was trying to escape. I didn't want that. I gripped at the rough cotton seams of the pockets and tugged them inside out. The sand scattered around me on the pavement. The dust escaped on the breeze - off to stick to something freshly cleaned. It was that sort of dust, I could tell. It had chased me across the ocean and it wouldn't stop there.

I gave my inverted pockets a shake to make sure I'd got rid of all that old life that I was dragging around. Then out flew a little ragged bit of a picture that told me I'd never leave Mexico behind. I let the torn scrap of photograph blow away - I didn't have to see it to know the eye or chin or cheek it showed. I knew it in my sleep. I'd shredded it into tiny pieces that couldn't be split any further and I'd scattered them like confetti to celebrate my escape. But somehow one bit had worked its way into a crevice and chased me to let me know I'd never get away.