Prompt: Freedom
Word Count: 1200 exactly
Deadline: January 27, 2021
Published online at Deadlinesforwriters.com
WHO IS SELA?
Day after day, a woman feeds me and her tone of voice is soothing. She purrs more than speaks, and her manner is kind. Trapped in this bed, I am at her mercy.
I remember driving home for Christmas break. There was an ice storm and heavy highway congestion so I took an unfamiliar exit, hoping to find a proper detour. I was already behind schedule, and had a three-hour drive, even before traffic. I recall turning onto Madison Road and feeling frustrated. Many others had the same idea, so cars were stacked but going slow on the black ice. Braking at the light, I’d slid into another vehicle and my memory becomes fuzzy there, because someone pulled me from my Sunfire, and then … nothing.
… until I woke in this plush bed, with a pounding headache. For many days now, this woman tends to me, who appears to be my grandmother’s age. She is dark-skinned with gray hair piled atop her head, and wears gauzy material, in flowing layers of white. She smells like fresh flowers and vanilla.
My mind seeks answers and plays a mix of images on loop. If I’d been in an accident, wouldn’t an ambulance have been called? How is it that I’m in a stranger’s residence? Did this woman drag me from my car? Is this like the story “Misery” where the crazy fan kidnaps the writer after his car crash?
My new environment is a warm room with only a thin line of light that glows under the door. Sometimes I hear voices, low baritones conversing with higher tones, but they speak in a language unknown to me.
Today I am feeling alert and my headache has finally departed. Somehow I must convey my wishes to this nice lady, that I’m better and ready to leave. My family must be worried. Police are likely searching for me. If I’m “missing” then my face must be all over the news. As I ponder ways to communicate, the bedroom door opens, and light pours in from the hallway.
“Mmmmm.” The lady nods to me, likely surprised to find me awake. Usually she rouses me, then helps me sit and drink a meal of beef broth and milky tea, in two separate cups.
I pat the bed beside me. This maternal figure moves forward, with tray in hand. I wave it off, and again slap the soft bedclothes. Seeming confused, the woman looks around the room devoid of furniture, and sets the little table down onto the floor, then lowers her broad rump where I’ve indicated. She folds her hands in her lap and waits.
I say slowly, as a person might foolishly do with a blind person – “I’m ready … to go home … now. Is my car … here?”
She turns and extends a finger towards my mouth. “Shh.” She muffles my next words with her touch.
Then she rises and retrieves the tray, moving into our feeding routine. But this time, she offers me a cup and stays standing. I do not drink.
“Home.” I emphasize this word, point to the door, then make two of my fingers walk across the bed.
A lilting chuckle escapes the matronly woman’s throat, which feels more alarming than comforting. She moves to my bedside, letting the soft fabric of her clothing brush against my cheek. “Home” she coos to me, then rests her chin on my head. In this intimate moment, I sense she wants me to stay.
Determined, I try again by pulling away and making a fist with my thumb and pinkie swinging at my ear. “Give me a phone.”
Lifting the tray and pushing it against the wall, china clinks and liquid spills. I do my best to scoot my bottom sideways and throw my legs over the edge of the mattress but this movement is exhausting and painful. I must have injuries from the accident. At this point, I am becoming fearful and angry.
“Bein, bein.” She scolds, lifting my legs back onto the bed and props me up into a sitting position. She skillfully tucks the white cotton sheets around my thighs as if to hold me in place. She wags her finger. We both blink at each other, unable to share language. The woman sighs, and sets the tray across my lap and puts the nearly empty cup in my hand, closing my fingers around the handle, then retreats, closing the door behind her.
That evening, I wake from an unintentional nap to her now familiar scent. There is no illumination behind my caretaker. She has arrived with a candle in one hand and a framed photo in the other. She gingerly perches on the edge of the bed and takes three deep breaths.
She hugs this picture to her chest. With wet eyes, she holds it out for me to view, and keeps the candlelight near without risk of burning my hair. I see an unsmiling teen girl who has dark hair like me, with a caramel complexion and similar eyes, and could be my twin. I realize then, this woman thinks maybe I know her, or maybe even thinks I am this person.
Copying her words and gestures, I say, “Bein, bein” and wiggle my index finger. Then I touch my own face, tap the glass of the photo, and try again, “Bein, bien”.
The woman smiles big, which looks grotesque above the candle’s flame. She massages my arm down to my wrist, and kisses my hand. “Sela.”
“Sela?”
She quickly grabs the photo and bursts from the room. Had I more energy, I would attempt to run through the open door and find an exit but my body will betray me, as it just has – and so I wait to see what happens next.
The deep voices I’ve been hearing are echoing through the building and drawing near. Heavy footsteps approach and suddenly the room is filled with men dressed in black hoods, all holding candles. “Sela.” They all take turns saying this word… maybe it is the name of the girl in the picture? Or do they think it is me?
The oldest gentleman produces a second photograph, while a younger man holds his candle close so I can see better. It is a picture of a simple wood coffin, and the top is open. The person inside looks very much like me, which I find unsettling. They all chant in unison, “Sela, bey fan”, over and over.
“It’s not me! Please – let me go home. One of you must know English. We’re in Michigan, for Pete’s sake.”
The men’s voices are so loud they do not hear mine. I count five men and the shortest among them steps forward. He presents what appears to be a gold crown, then places it upon my head.
“Sela. Sela. Sela.” Everyone chants in unison.
The woman sits and embraces me fully. Then she puts her hand on the back of my head, making me drink the milky tea and I begin to feel sleepy. In this moment I realize that no one is going to grant me freedom.