Chameleons in Black and White

Could real life be any more unreal? Here I was on the road, during a record storm, after being betrayed by my shit-head Mom and Dad. Quite a frightening ordeal for a girl of fifteen! Bound hand and foot, I banged loosely on the floor of some horrible old trunk that stank of gasoline and nightmares. My wrists were tied with rope, and my head was blinded by sack cloth, until They found it appropriate to remove them. I struggled against the rope, until at last, we arrived at our awful destination. Once there, I was dragged from the van, into a dank room, where they unloaded us like potato sacks.

When unmasked, we were greeted by lightening from outside which bled in, allowing us to see the paisley room we were in was a nursery. When another thunderbolt flashed again, it revealed a room so badly neglected that the building must have been condemned. Wallpaper curled up walls, looking like it was black in spots from an old fire, and mold showed underneath. Out of the corner of my eye a rat scurried. While electricity painted our frightened faces, I waited with my tribe for the two nun statues to tell us what we were doing here. Instead the statues busied themselves by gaping at a clock on the wall behind us, their heads ducking back down and greedily sifting through a mysterious satchel that contained some nameless treasure.

The many night’s following were monotonous, with no questions answered, as we huddled in this godforsaken room. Occassionally we were given baked beans, and out-house trips, but the only difference that I detected in this time warp was our group of women thinning out. Each new night there was less of us. Thanks to the heavily veiled windows, night was the only point of reference we knew of now; when our hours grew darker, stretching on like an endless quilt. I was already shy, but the trend of missing women made me become even more remote, and cautious about connecting with the other scared girls.

One evening, I awoke peering into the eyes of a auburn chick of seventeen who had a pale, upraised scar that ran from her lip to her right ear. Her scar looked like a white tattoo. It was a piece of art on her face. She was mouthing something, and there didn’t appear to be anyone in the room but the three remaining women. Grabbing her shoulder, I drew her closer to the ground so I could hear her.

“…It’s a prostitution ring, I think. These ain’t nuns, it’s all a set-up! We gotta hustle!”

I gawked back in fright. I was at a loss. Luckily she took the reins.

“We don’t have time! C’mon, Jesse! That’s your name, right? …Read it on their roster your about to be sent to a Bolivian man named Mauricio. Let’s go!”

The girl with the scar gripped my hand, and led us through a window she had wedged open. Once alerted, our captors hollered as we ran down the trail towards a forest in the distance. They were all too stupid to catch us though. My brave friend squeezed my palm as she skillfully shepherded me through bramble and crops of trees in the blackness. When I reached a cliff where a clearing could be scanned from above I noticed the girl with the scar had vanished. I felt naked without her, but I sobered up fast. The last wheel of the journey had to be done alone. Finding a way down the hill, I discovered a vacant cabin. I settled into it, and it has become my sanctuary for many years. There was some silverware left behind from the previous owners, and an axe stuck in a block of wood at the back of the house. I've cut my own wood here, and lived a solitary life. I've learned to catch small game with some skillful traps I've been forced to invent. I cook a mean rabbit! Sometimes, in the evening, after I've cooked up a hot meal, I think about my parents and how much I hate them. The hate is wearing off though. I wonder about whether I should move back to the chaos of the city, where people are governed by their fanatic infatuations. The city is frightening but the country is much, much darker in more then a few ways. You never know what's going to happen out here in wilderness, or what will come sneaking out of the bramble. The bitter pill I've come to accept is that everyone must fend for themselves.

©

2017

Bunny Villaire