Memories of Amalia haunted Femie as she continued to the next door. Like a shadow, it followed her as she dragged her feet across the corridor once again to face a new door; and new fear.
Femie was trembling, but only slightly, as she lifted her hand to reach the rounded doorknob. She hadn't quite noticed until now that each door she'd encountered has been very slightly different. Upon first entering the corridor just a few hours before, Femie had been overwhelmed by how constant, never-ending and heterogenous the corridor had appeared. It was only now that she realised that each door had a slightly different handle, or a different design. They even opened different ways.
This realisation in mind, Femie turned the handle and slowly pushed open the door into a room of darkness.
There was absolutely no light in the room, and the glow from the corridor only spread a few feet into the room. Even so, it seemed that the room was empty. Femie didn't trust it at all, and so she slowly leaned her head in to get a look at the ceiling above. Still, she saw nothing. She stood up straight again and took a few tentative steps forward. Heart beating rapidly, she moved slowly further into the room, yet still nothing happened.
She stopped for a moment, frowned in confusion and peered around the room. Turning to leave, she realised that there was something in there with her. In the radiating light from the corridor, Femie noticed the tiny, dark specs falling from above as if it was snowing with ash. It was mesmerising. She wondered what this mysterious dust could possibly be, so she crouched down to look at the settled pieces on the ground.
They were so tiny that it took Femie's eyes some time to adjust. She had to squint to really see them properly. As her eyes adjusted, she realised they were moving; scuttling around and jumping. One landed on Femie's hand, and suddenly she swatted it away.
Lice!
Femie bolted out of the room before she could even stand up and tripped over her own feet on the way out, landing painfully on her scuffed-up hands. She turned and pulled the door closed immediately, but her head was already beginning to itch. She shook her head like a dog who had just escaped from the bath, but the itching remained. Mortified, she reached up and violently scratched and shook her hair out, causing it to puff up like a storm cloud.
"Mierda!" she swore angrily as her nails raked over her scalp, attacking the invaders. She collapsed to her knees, shaking out her hair onto the floor, but to no avail. The lice were on her to stay.
"Madre mio," Femie exclaimed as she fell back to sit, her head inclined down, defeated. She trembled on the ground, trying to fight her urge to scratch more. She had never had lice before. Every time her school had had a breakout, Femie's mother had tied her hair up into the tightest, most painful ponytail so that she was safe. It wasn't just the fact that she had live that really upset Femie, it was the thought that she had disappointed her mother again.
Femie would never forget her mother's face the day she left that courtroom. She only caught her eye for a second, but that was enough. It was sheer disappointment and regret, a look that echoed through Femie's brain unrelentingly as the long, slow drive to her new home in prison dragged on and on.
The thought that her mother might be watching her with the same look right now, wherever she was, brought tears of failure to Femie's eyes. The torment of her memories led her to stay on the floor sobbing for much too long. She knew that the world was watching her, judging her for such an overreaction to a few lice, but she couldn't help herself. One of the few reasons she was braving this train-wreck was so that she could prove to her family that they had reason to believe in her, but seeing her mother's face in her head looking so crushed and overcast almost caused Femie to give up then and there.
As she shed the last of her tears, Femie rose up and took a deep breath. She found her strength in that moment, and took a revitalised step towards the next challenge.