Monday, February 24, 2014
What of Zita?
by Mark William Darus.
Awaking slowly, her limbs registering COLD to her mind, as her splendor arms and legs are spalyed out in the tiny bathroom. Hear ears capture the sounds of that of a dripping faucet, relentlessly digging into her.
Eyes open, as if from a dream while she smells the sickly sweet smell of menstrual cycle on overload.
It is iron, her mind captures. Iron.
Her memory takes her backward to the day of her first female movement.
Her first period.
The stench of blood filled the bedroom she shared with 3 brothers and its slowly dropping temperature work her inner thighs as she got suddenly colder with its movement.
Frightened, embarrassed, and lonely, she reacted like most 7 year old.
Her eyes took focus, slowly at first, though faster as her heartbeat climbed.
Looking up from the whitish cold ceramic tile flooring, her lids opening, taking in bits at a time, she began to see shapes before.
Off-white tiled walls dripping reddish stains descending to the floor.
She begins to move, brumette hair caked in blood, looking like some Russell Stover candy monstrosity, as dull brown hues mix with vibrant reds.
...to be continued....