The silenced hostage, and her screaming baby

Anaya Chambliss '28

She blinked against a gust of wind as she stepped into the garden

Although, she didn’t care to admire the flowers 

or to stare longingly over the brick fence

She didn’t care for anything now though 

At least here, she could escape the noise

So, walking through the large garden she didn’t sing or laugh 

or even smile

Inexplicably though, she bent down to observe roses

They weren’t the bright red color that normally tinted these flowers, no

In the dimness of evening they almost looked black

She picked one, it pricked her hand, she didn’t let go

Towards the brick wall, she kept walking

Her gaze captured by a large tree 

The fullness, wholeness of it, the life

The ridges in its bark, the vibrancy in its bright green leaves, and its long branches 

Even from a distance they seemed to reach out to her and yell something

She wasn’t sure what

It was only then she noticed the children

They reached up, and picked the trees leaves, tore them up, and then threw into the air like confetti

A sense of dread pooled in her, she felt a sort of storm forming within her

She backed away from the fence horrified

Although she knew the noise had not subsided she stormed back inside and placed the flower in a vase

That night, she pressed ice to her son’s face, and she knew that he would be the tree

Even if she would die the leaf

For now she knew what the tree was shouting, and she knew that it wasn’t for her

Not anymore