He poured himself a cup of coffee and settled into the chair and table set on his porch. Getting up he grabbed his computer bag from the living room, and returned to the porch. He took his computer out and began editing pictures he had taken. The air was cool, fresh, and damp. It was spring air, his favorite kind. The birds were in full bloom that day and the trees sang as the wind rustled inbetween their branches. The porch was a deep mahogany with a screen and screen-door. And as he looked through his pictures, a grim expression overtook his countenance as he saw—hidden beyond the legs of a deer he captured—a head sticking out from a bush.
(SpOoooKy)
“I hope you don’t imagine,” he began soberly to the men seated before him, “that you will be able to save yourselves.” The armored men remained silent; if they had no helmets one might have thought they were exchanging glances. The whirring of the helicopter’s blade could be heard droning in the backgroud— pulsating. The helicopter itself, on the inside, was spacious with steel walls and black floors. There were boxes of ammo, boots, and guns arranged neatly on the walls. It appeared crammed, but that was only so because of the men inside. They all sat together in suits of plated black armor that made them look invisible on the floor, and in the darkness of the room. It reeked of sweat. Every soldier seemed to pick at his armour and twitch. Some began to cry, and they all sat with lowered heads. The man at the front swallowed. He had olive skin, and long black hair that he tied behind his head. He looked at the soldiers with an earnestnest that demanded their attention. “We are the dead; understand this.” He stated. “We cannot and will not save ourselves. But comrades, do not lose courage. This fight is not for ourselves, this is for our posterity; for our sons and daughter who deserve a better future!” The men lifted their heads. “We have no future. We have been starved, worked, and beaten beyond recompence; we cannot be saved. It is not for our future that we fight, it is theirs; it belongs to the young, and for the young we shall ride with strengh— for their freedom, for their health, for their land, food, and their prosperity. Every drop of bled we shed will be their drink; their clean and uninfected waters— every rotting body will fertilize the land they will inherit. I bid thee, men of the North, stand; fight— for our death! For their life!” With this he raised his fist. “Death! Death!” The men roared, their voices swelling in chant-like corollary with his. The helicopter’s door burst open, and the men flung on their parachutes and jumped.
It reeked of powder and perfume. The lights kept flickering as if they would break any moment. The walls were grimy, and nextway a few vanities were situated. The dressing room was desolate for all but two. A woman with a mature face and blonde hair sat across from a young redhead that was brushing her hair. They sat on a vanity facing each other. All that could be heard was their voices, and the sound of distant footsteps drawing closer to the door. “April,” the redhead began, “I don’ know how much longer I can do this.” She looked soberly at the ground. “I just— I just— I don’t want to let him down. He’s done so much for me—he really has—but I don’t like this. I-“ April brought her hand to embrace the redhead’s shoulder. The redhead looked up from the ground and into the eyes of her elder— her mentor— the only person she could trust, with all her wisdom and experience. “Eliza,” quoth April, who warmly met Eliza’s eyes with her own, “If I were you, I’d—“ The door swung open. There stood a tall gaunt man with a dignified stance. April and Eliza jumped out of their seats, and stood with wide eyes staring at the man. April felt the need to cry, but restrained herself from fear of ruining her maquillage. She put it on not fifteen minutes ago when she had been safe inside her dressing room and not in the prescence of her employer. She always felt the inclination to cry when he was there; most days were awful, but they became unbearable at the sight of him. Something would drop in her stomach and her lungs were chained so that even breathing seemed impossible, in his presence. “Eliza Cummington,” the man said in a thunderous voice, “come here.” He walked over to the girls and grabbed Eliza by her hair. She became limp as a ragdoll and the man dragged her out of the room. She started crying and mumbling “please,” over and over again. April followed them into the next room, a large kitchen-like area that was located down the hall next to the dressing rooms. There was a table located in the corner, where four girls were sitting and eating. April couldn’t help but notice a metallic smell that was likely coming from the pans. In seconds the man had thrown Eliza on the floor and was beating her. He shouted every obscenity at her. She cried and pleaded for mercy, but none was given; it was understood that the moment you became a prostitute you sold more than your sexuality, you sold your autonomy, your life, your very soul was no longer your own. What Eliza had done wrong no one could remember, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was disobedient and that her pimp could, and would, discipline her; and that he would do the same to everyone else. The four women watched with terror the fate that had befallen Eliza. April stood in the doorway and watched. She was frozen and would not move. All that could be heard were the grunts and pleas and sobs of Eliza— Eliza— poor Eliza. For a moment April and the Eliza locked eyes. They had a way of understanding each other that surpassed language. When the redhead looked at April with teary, wanting eyes April understood everything. They were saying: “help me— don’t let him do this to me— stop this.” And when April looked at Eliza wirh a deadened glance, Eliza understood, too. She could almost hear April saying it; she was saying: “there’s nothing I can do for you.” And in her heart April believed that.
The cafeteria was bustling with activity. The air was cold and the lights were bright enough to seer my eyes. Persons of every height, weight, and race scurried through the aisles like birds who had some important business. I scurried with them, lunchbox in hand. I looked around to find a place to sit, but then I caught sight of a man sitting in the corner with brown hair. He wore a blue shirt with jeans; he was handsome— that was for sure. His hair fell gently before his eyes; and his eyes glowed like honey when the light shone. He sat lonesome. I watched him for a minute or so—my pulse began to rise—and having realized his situation I went over to talk to him. “Didnt you bring a lunch?” Quoth I. He looked at me as if he could eat me. “No.” He murmered. So I sat down, opened my lunchbox, and gave him the sandwich I packed.
