Stains of Green

Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash

It’s quiet.

Brittney can feel the room around her. A chill leaks from what only can be a window. A dampness floats around her. A fear pains her chest, shortening her breaths. It tightens the skin on her forearms. She thinks of the hair on them, and how she always meant to shave them; the dark, long follicles that make her feel manly. She frowns. Nobody cares about the hairiness of a dead, black woman.

The cloth around her eyes is soft. It does not allow any light, yet it’s the most pleasurable experience of the past few days. Her nostrils flare, defending her from the pungent smell of mold. Her stomach flexes, threatening to project what little food was given to her.  Vomiting has been a concern for the last few hours, but she whisked it away. Thoughts of puking pass, but something catches her attention. Her eardrums pick up the soft vibrations the rest of her body ignores. Her lungs freeze.

Someone was in the room with her.

She listens for movement, but only hears breathing.

“Is there more food?” She asks, immediately regarding any kind of response.

“No,” the man responds with a laugh, “not yet.”

Brittney squeezes the base of her chair. She focuses away the itching of the hemp rope irritating her biceps, binding her to the seat. The hair on her arms turn to quills. Her mind paints scenarios of the potential possibilities, and her imagination betrays her. The nightmares intertwine with her reality. She now focuses on the void, in an attempt to clear her mind, but instead she waits for a follow up comment. The void grows.

“You’re pretty, prettier than I could have hoped.” He says.

She wishes for more silence.

As it was granted to her, the fear grew as well. It exploded throughout her as cold fingers graze her face, feeling lifeless, stealing heat away from her face.

“Please stop.” She whispers.

“No.” The man continued to stroke her face. She could feel the warmness of his breath, but the mold masked whatever he ate. She shifted, tilting the chair forward. The finger pressed against his face stronger. The stranger breathed harder and quicker, which made her plan easier to execute.

She screamed. The man strutted back, but snarled at her for the attention she was drawing to them.

“You little bitch.”

She inhales deeply, and prepare for another wail. Her shoes launch from the floor, flinging herself backwards, screaming as she went down. The cement punches the back of her head, stopping her cry. Her head feels weightless, and yet she feels the man standing over her. The door opens, and two more men enter. Brittney focuses on her daze, straining to distract herself of the impending doom she expedited. She waited to be swept up by her captors.

The door shuts. Silence follows.

It worked? She was never the type to be quick on her feet, but the circumstances changed her. Even though she was lying on the floor in some basement, tied to a chair, she refuses to play the victim.

#

Brittney looks outwards in a field, full of grass; grass she’ll normally be highly allergic too, but she’s grateful. The ground is soft on her feet. The white silk dress she’s wearing comforts her, distracting her from the itching in her shins. The light from the sun relaxes her face, and she closes her eyes to embrace it.

She opens them, and sees a dark figure at the edge of her sight, and tries around to eye it. She spins, looking for it, hoping for more than a glimpse. The light starts to betray her, and she no longer feels welcome in the plains. She runs away from the distrust, feeling it chasing her. Her legs feel clumsy; she was never a runner, and the itching intensifies. She looks for the fear pursuing her, but her agility fails. Her legs tangle, and she lands on her chest. She lies there with nothing but sore breasts and sadness. Pressing herself up, she sees the grass stains on the front of the white dress. 

It’s blotched from her hips to her rib cage. She looks for some type of imagery, hopefully to see some art on the canvass. All she sees is grass residue. She turns around, but see that she’s the only one there.

#

Brittney’s head throbs. Dirt sticks to the side of her face. She lies on her left arm, which the back of the chair digs into. Why did I- she wonders, until she notices the clear view of the door. She had rubbed the blindfold up, unveiling sight through her left eye. The portal was still shut. How long until they come for me again?

She looks around the room. The chair pins her, but now she can see the table, littered with bowls they fed her with. She stares at the door, then follows the trail of mold that grows outward from the door sealing. Another chair sits inches away from the pegs of my prison.

That’s where he has been—

Suddenly, it was dark again. A fingernail dragged behind her eye, securing the blindfold. She inhales to cast another warning, but a palm clasps over her mouth, muffling her cry.

“Not this time.”

The man hoists her in the air, and sets the chair on its legs.

“Scream again, and the others will find you dead, with no sight of me.”

He slowly pulled his hand away. Was he bluffing? In truth, it didn’t matter if he was. His tactic worked. Her breaths pulsed quickly, as if she wasn’t sure how many she’ll have.

“What do you want?” She questioned, quietly.

“Do you care? I don’t have to tell you anything. I owe nothing.” He reasoned.

“If I’m hurt,” She spoke, realizing that she had the beginnings of a plan, “it’s just going to get the police involved.”

“The others won’t know. Nobody will. We’re going to get your ransom, and you’ve never going to say of word. You’ll finally get your freedom.”

“You don’t know-”

“But you’ll always remember me, and yet I’ll be nothing but a memory”

Death didn’t seem so bad to her now. The ramblings of her captor wanted her to leave this world on her feet, regardless if those feet were attached to the legs of a chair. To her, this would be her standing tall, but she had to come up with something soon or else—

The dress, she thought. I care too much about staining the dress.

“You don’t scare me.” She proclaimed. Her voice carried louder than she meant it to, but she didn’t care.

“Shut up.” He responded.

“No.”

“You better shut your mouth before I-”

“You’re a coward.”

She sold it to herself. Her breaths were longer, deeper. The ropes wrapped around her didn’t feel so tight, and her feet felt supported.

“Coward?”

“I didn’t stutter.”

“You fucking- I swear to God, I’m going to-”

She laughed. She felt divine and the laughter drove away doubt. Her voice echoed in the room.

“What are you laughing at?” He questioned.

“God’s not helping you. Why would he? He loves me.” She felt the man lose his presence. “You too, but you’re doing this alone.”

“You’re one of them religious freaks, aren’t you?”

“No, just blessed.”

“You’re crazy.”

“And I’m the one tied to the chair.”

Footsteps. The door swings wide open.

“Wait, I can explain!” He yelped.

Bone meets bone, a thumping echo in the room, accented by whimpers. It brings a smile to her face. Boots scrape against the cement floor, led by heavy footsteps. The door closes. The silence calms her, and she slumps in the chair.

When the other two visit her, they feed her quicker than usual, and she hears them arguing outside.  Their arguments grow louder, and utensils shake as they guide food to her mouth. She thanked them when they finished. She erases any regret from the scenario, and embrace any consequences. She took control, and her pride is unwavering.

Even when she hears the gunshots, she know she is safe, and when the door opens-

“Brittney? Is that you?”

She cries with joy.