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.
