I didn’t sign up for this shit. Matthew sat on a chair, his head leaning backward, hanging over the edge of his seat. He signed up to kill shifters, not babysit one. Advertisements
I’m one of those people who has grown exceedingly tired of black bodies being type-casted in large and minor Hollywood films. I am done with seeing black people (meaning everyone in the African diaspora, not just African-American) in chains, as slaves, as the help, being traumatized, playing the fool for comedic relief, being the token symbol of diversity or being the villain. It was stressing me out. We are not and should not be limited to these films, and so, when Black Panther was announced and the cast was majorly black, I was excited. Not only because it’s one of my favorite comic book series, but because of the representation.
The cage door screeched as it opened, and Marissa wondered if it was her fear that had heightened the sound. While it struggled to completely open, she dashed across the room. The last thing she wanted was to be trapped against the door when whatever was behind those bars came out. She needed room to run and think. At the end of the exceedingly long corridor, the room split off and dim lights came on. Left and right were her only options. She darted to the left and saw another opening on her right. She skidded into it and paused. The next room was a straight path but there were openings on both sides of the walls. She counted 6 on both sides. God, she hoped she wasn’t in a maze.
Marissa’s gaze shifted slightly, wondering if it was still too late to dive out the window and make a run for it. Maybe Melanie was bluffing and the drop wouldn’t kill her. And if she was some supernatural creature surely, she’d be fine. The hairs on her neck were standing. The room was dead silent. They were waiting for her to give her answer. Though she was focused on her escape, she was also very aware of the men’s’ bodies. They were prepared to shoot at her at the slightest suspicious movement. She did not like her odds at all right. Even if she could use the window, she’d probably be riddled with bullets before she could jump out.
Marissa tilted her head as she regarded the stranger standing across the room. The woman looked exhausted, and there were dark circles under her brown eyes. Her jet-black hair was cut short and hidden under an equally dark cap. The woman held her hands to her mouth, her face covered in shock and concern.
Sehjada jumped from her mattress, her hair wild and damp like her bedsheets from her sweat. She palmed her face, breathing erratically. From the space between her fingers she could see the image of Marissa. Her best friend’s bloody face stared back at her with dead eyes and she screamed. She swung her hand at her sheets then swung her feet off the bed, tripping over her slippers as she tried to escape. At the last minute, she managed to grab onto her dresser before she could hit the thing. Then, she collapsed on the floor. Her body shook and she wrapped her arms around herself. Every night for the past two months she went through this. The guilt of aiding in the death of her best friend had consumed her. She had no idea how to stop it either. She was sure she would have been fine. Marissa was a monster. She had to die. They all had to die. “Why won’t you leave me alone?” She held her head with both hands and …