*** ‘Vignette City’ is an ongoing project of daily writing and urban photography ***
She looked up into the vent.
The screams had stopped after the gunshot, which also had also come from the other side of the vent.
The screams had stopped. Before the stopping though was the gunshot and before the gunshot, that’s when the screams had been happening. Mostly it had been Marcella screaming, but it had also sounded as though she’d attacked their Captor, and while he had not screamed, there had been a few “ooffs” and “hutttss” as she got a few good kicks in.
She had never actually seen Marcella, but they’d talked at night through the vent in the dirt and stone wall between their little cells. Marcella had admitted, “I don’t even care anymore, I’m going to fight. I don’t care what he does to me.”
She had been there only a few weeks, but Marcella had been there longer. Much longer.
“Just don’t do anything terrible,” she had whispered to Marcella through the vent the night before.
“It’s not my terrible things we need to worry about, Dearie.” Marcella had replied.
But now all of the sounds had stopped. No noise passed through the vent.
She stood up on her little cot and placed her face close to the grate of the vent even though she knew nothing could be seen through the vent.
“Marcella?” She whispered.
Nothing.
After all the sounds of the ruckus and the screaming and then the gunshot, the quivering silence was awful.
“Marcella . . . ?”
“Okay Dearie,” her voice floated back through the vent, “it’s okay now.”
.
.
.
The screams had stopped after the gunshot, which also had also come from the other side of the vent.
The screams had stopped. Before the stopping though was the gunshot and before the gunshot, that’s when the screams had been happening. Mostly it had been Marcella screaming, but it had also sounded as though she’d attacked their Captor, and while he had not screamed, there had been a few “ooffs” and “hutttss” as she got a few good kicks in.
She had never actually seen Marcella, but they’d talked at night through the vent in the dirt and stone wall between their little cells. Marcella had admitted, “I don’t even care anymore, I’m going to fight. I don’t care what he does to me.”
She had been there only a few weeks, but Marcella had been there longer. Much longer.
“Just don’t do anything terrible,” she had whispered to Marcella through the vent the night before.
“It’s not my terrible things we need to worry about, Dearie.” Marcella had replied.
But now all of the sounds had stopped. No noise passed through the vent.
She stood up on her little cot and placed her face close to the grate of the vent even though she knew nothing could be seen through the vent.
“Marcella?” She whispered.
Nothing.
After all the sounds of the ruckus and the screaming and then the gunshot, the quivering silence was awful.
“Marcella . . . ?”
“Okay Dearie,” her voice floated back through the vent, “it’s okay now.”
.
.
.
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