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 i...