Wednesday, January 16, 2019

Magical Realism

TW: violence
Note: this is fictional

That sound. What was it? A box fan? The blades of a helicopter? She was disoriented.
The dust. The taste of the dust was in her mouth in her nose. Angrily, she inhaled and exhaled heavily. Spat on the ground. The drive had been long. There was muttering between them, The Men, indiscernible to her.
Have I slept? She thought.
Have I eaten?
Who cares, was her final thought then.

They slipped another of those dissolving pills into a bottle. Blue. It was blue. Against the neutral landscape surrounding her, all the darkness, the blue stood out, glistening in a beam of light. She collapsed. Her jean shorts were soiled, and her knees buckled. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her neck could no longer support the head. One of The Men knelt next to her, plugging her nose and opening her mouth, and emptying the contents of the bottle. She sputtered, and lost consciousness again.

Time and space was nebulous now, devoid of meaning at this point. The differentiation between captor and liberator, something that would be stark to others, was one she couldn't make anymore. These men, with their faces covered, didn't stir fear in her. She'd lost everyone. The first one to go was herself. Being in this dusty ass basement with these strangers... nothing mattered. She found solace in her numbness and indifference, because of course the lack of feeling was better than the alternative. She vowed to never feel again. She would become one of them. They already had her uniform waiting.

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