Black Eyed: A Novel

Chapter Seven: Elissa

1

A creak to the door jolts me awake. I scramble to the headboard and attempt to stand, but a heavy quilt knots my legs, and I crash to the floor. I'm in a dark room that somehow looks vaguely familiar, as if remembered through a foggy dream. An incredibly tall and menacing figure holds a tray with a forearm in the door frame, long braided hair swinging at her hips. The hallway's light does little to illuminate her dark features, and her eyes remain black pits bored into her head.

Half of her fat mouth pulls into a humiliating smirk.

"Not very graceful, are we?"

My lips grate against each other, the swollen and crusted skin pinching into a scowl as my eyes stare directly into hers. I recognize her now. The same cocky, overzealous, captivatingly beautiful girl who almost growled me to death when I first woke from my nightmare.

Or have I? I hope that I'm still asleep.

I remain silent as I stand. She huffs a response, displeased that the entertainment ended. She aims the tray and its contents to bounce on the edge of the bed, precarious but well aimed. "You haven't eaten in a while. Ava made some soup, bread-" she pulls a water bottle from a back pocket and throws it into my unsure grip. I don't allow her the satisfaction of me dropping it. "-some water. There's more downstairs." Her eyes squint as she studies me. I feel exposed under her scrutiny.

Defenseless, bruised, and bloodied, in the middle of a crop circle, the man lifts his glowing weapon, an extension of his arm leveled with my head. "You are hereby sentenced to death." My feet flail beneath me, a vain attempt of escape, before-

My breath catches in my throat.

"You can eat up here, with me. Or you can eat downstairs with everyone else," she continues. "I have a preference, but I am sure it won't be the same as yours." It's a threat.

I bite my lip to stop it from quivering in irritation. There is not much choice in the offer. I jerk my head to the door, my gaze following the movement. After you, asshole.

Her head tips back and tar-thick brows raise in salute, then angles her stare downwards, highlighting the embarrassing differences in our heights. I stand on the other side of the small room, enough so I can dissuade myself into believing I could level her; in truth, I barely reach her golden chin.

"Guests first." The snide comment means she'd be able to invade my space as I walk through the door frame, and my stomach grips in warning, a deep pain somewhere within panging from a scarred over wound.

I walk by her, never looking away from the dark tunnels that stare back. The walk down the hallway is purposefully slow, both of us petty and trying to be the first to blink or misstep. I decide to fill the time. "As accommodating as my host has been, I don't even know your name," I say.

"You won't be long here enough to need it."

I guess I blinked first that time.

2

I look out a window to the road and corn, the sun lowering itself below the crop. The orange sun somehow makes the dirt look alive, the red glowing from the dusk's radiance.

I loved to jog down that long dirt road. I found solace and freedom in my running shoes. Bright blue and yellow, inherited from a long-lost foster sister, they carried me down that red road, going fast to nowhere. If I timed it right, I could run by the two wives, gardening tomatoes and herbs, when they were both still alive.

"Oh, sweetie," they would chastise. "You shouldn't be in this heat." Then I would be invited in for lemonade and ginger snaps and recommendations that I smell their fingers because tomato vine smells delicious, here just take a whiff of this! Their dogs would clamor over me, begging for attention they never starved from. I would return to home, greeted by the quiet, smelling of tomatoes, spices, and dog.