9 Months

The Black Flower

Dawn breaks. The curtains by the narrow window sway with the cold breeze breaking into the little room tainted by moonlight. On the left corner, lies an open notebook, with half torn pieces of paper. Few centimeters to its right, dance scattered pages, some of which are stuck to the voids of a closed door. On the right corner, stands a white table, appears grey and glossy wherever the rays of the moon hit it. Beneath the table stands a golden vase, cracked and empty. A lonely, black flower sits on the table, with a drop of red on one of its eight petals; it must be from the bloody razor next to it.

In the middle of the room, a chair is turned on its side, and above it, a rope is knotted into a ring and tied to the ceiling, moving back and forth with the air. Below the window, a young boy with newly shaved hair shrinks into himself. A little drop of tear lands beside the dew of blood falling from his wrist. His shivers end, and his heartbeats race when he glimpses a shadow on the other side of the door. He wishes it were a ghost, but he knows those loud, slow footsteps; he sees that round, leathery head; he feels those thick fingers on his skin.

Three knocks on the door precedes the hoarse whispers, “Time for my shift, boy. You better not try to escape today, or you know what I’d do to you. Now put something clean on, and come down. Father wants to do another session for you.” 

The boy gets up, puts a long sleeved, white robe on, and wipes his tears, then opens the door. The big man spots the rope inside, throws a lame smile at the boy, puts his grip on his shoulder, and pulls him out of the room.

“Come on, be a good boy.” 

And as they leave, the wind slams the door, forcing a piece of paper to rise up in the air, then fall out of the window to find nothing but the soft rain wiping off the ink on it saying, ‘I AM A GIRL. I AM A IRL. I M A GI L. I AM IRL. AM GIRL. I GIRL…’  

 

The end