Taken

Her eyes water slightly. And her bottom lip shakes a little as she desperately tries to stay composed. A camera flash startles her. And she blinks rapidly. Tightening the hold she has on the framed photo on her lap. It is a photo of her daughter. Her daughter grins wildly, holding a rainbow paddlepop ice cream. She is oblivious to her mother’s distress. The camera zooms in on the mothers face as she starts to speak.
“She is fifteen years old” And starts to cry.
The camera zooms in closer. Greedily feeding on the women’s fear and grief. Lapping up the tears as they drip down.
“She was wearing a blue tank top. A Billabong one. And white shorts. They were her favourite.” The mother keeps blinking and crying. And the camera almost grins as it zooms. An extreme close-up. On a tear. It trembles on the edge of the woman’s chin, the droplet held only by the layer of foundation there.

*****************************************************

I’m in a room. It is dark. I see nothing. I assume it is a room. For it has a floor. That I quivered on, bled on, cried on, for what seemed like an eternity. And it has four walls. That crumble and sigh underneath my curious fingertips. And it has a ceiling. A ceiling that I once hit my head on momentarily creating a world of glittering stars that sang. Before they faded into darkness, leaving only the warm, suffocating ache in my head. Swelling behind my right eye. Pressing and pulsing until I am sure my eye will pop out and roll away into the gloom. And then I will have to tediously search in the musty darkness for it and place my dusty eye gently back into the socket. Dreading the loud, wet noise that is sure to emerge. Echoing in this claustrophobic room. That has no windows. No light.

It is daytime again. I know it is day, because I can here the scuffling above me. Heavy feet on wood floor boards. I roll over a little and collide, with some other warm, tender mass, much like myself. Some warm, voluptuous mass that cringes and whimpers. Have I gone mad? I wonder. Is this mass? Is she real?
A She, I feel her feminity.
“Are you real?” a voice asks.
I realise in some small rational part of my brain that the voice is mine. But my voice sounds different. Normally my voice is golden syrup, sweet, sugary, dripping with long vowels. My voice is beautiful. That’s what a man told me once. Right before he yanked my head back roughly. And I woke up here. This voice is ruptured. I knew it was wrong, even as the noises clawed their way up my throat. As they swung from my tonsils and past my teeth. Into this black abyss.

“I am real” comes a reply, floating like a question mark.
As if the warm, shivering (and I’m assuming creamy white) mass cannot believe it. I only had to wait a few seconds. It was still to long.

Because of her words, I am overcome with some sort of ecstasy. It originates in my left lung, spreading to my right. They both expand like a joyous, plump toddler’s treasured balloon. And this ecstasy shoots through my body, coming out of my throat in the form of a giggle. I’m not sure a giggle is appropriate in this situation. So I try to quash it. But the ecstasy revolts and rises up in my throat again. This time however, while I cringe in expectation of a giggle, it instead manifests as a sigh. The sigh is a sweet, little cloud of breath that floats down to my companion and bursts on her collar bone.

“Where are we?” I ask
Or a voice asks: I refuse to accept this horrible scratching voice that spills over my lips. She doesn’t reply. I press my knees into her lieing body to remind her I still exist. I still exist. Still nothing. So I poke her. Press my long finger slowly into her side. But she doesn’t even flinch. I poke her again.
Nothing.
I almost cry. Almost cry out in my alien voice. Almost retreat back to my crumbling walls and dreams. Until I realise. The mass is no longer warm. It is cool and disinterested. Its flesh still digesting my persistent finger. I wonder, has this mass been granted a freedom that has eluded me always? Has her soul fled? I have seen souls flee before. Seen souls flee the exploding bodies of animals. Their dead, staring eyes, as my Dad reloaded his gun. Eyes just staring, as the jelly in them glazes. Sometimes an iris would slide inappropriately. Making the body look comical as its blood spilled silently. I would always laugh. And my Father would always glare.

Has she died? I place my hands on her face. Cup the shape of it. Oval. She’s lucky, any hairstyle suits an oval shaped face. I trace out a pert, little mouth. That has a trail of what I’m assuming is drool down the left side of it. The left side, where the ground cradles her. It occurs to me to feel her pulse. None exists. This indescribable animal noise escapes me. Sort of like the growl my cat used to make when I stuck clothes pegs to her fur. Sort of like when a rabid dog was backed into a corner of my yard at home. Before my Dad made it explode. And I laughed.

I feel guilty because I know how the dog feels now. Trapped.

Why does she get to go? Why do I have to stay in this room I hate? (Is it a room? Or hell?). Its not fair. A sob tears itself from my inside. All I can hear is the scuffling above me. I never knew such despair could exist, as it does in me now. Sitting like a black stone in my stomach. Swelling in my throat. I think my soul will flee here in this room. I hope it is soon. It is black. I can see nothing at all. I close my eyes anyway. Then I curl into the cooling mass’s body. And sleep.

****************************************************

Her eyes are pale blue. The edges of them are red. Bright red. The lighting man adjusts a spotlight so they seem to glow. This also accentuates the bags under her eyes. She holds another photo. Her daughter is wearing a blue, satin gown. It was her high school dinner. There is a large, gaudy corsage strapped to her delicate wrist. The camera captures all of this. The mother begins to speak, after someone gives her the cue.
“Please” she begs “Give my baby back”.
She clenches her teeth together, trying not to cry. But the tears squeeze themselves out with fervour. The camera sighs in relief. And rushes. To get the tear in a close up shot. The editing crew would put it in slow motion later.