Black Scars: A Fictional Narrative

I wake up from the comfort of General Zaroff’s bed. I get up and stretch, yawning. There was a lot to do. I get the up from the bed slowly, not wanting to leave the comfort of the bed, that I hadn’t had felt for three days. First of all, I have to get off this horrible island.

Staples often faces stereotypes because of his “threatening” physical appearance. In fact, during his night strolls most women he came in contact with would hide their purses and others would walk towards the opposite side as him. Women in particular are often the ones who fear him. Staples does not deny the fact that women are the most vulnerable to street violence, and young

She feels Armin’s hand on her arm, tentative, and notices that the soldiers have disappeared. Just as she’s about to ask him, Armin beats her to it. “I told them to go up, said that it’d attract less attention.”

“You prefer I beat the shit out of your motorcycle?” At my horrified expression, she laughs out loud. “Yea, didn’t think so.”

When the gunshot rang through my ears, I, as well as everyone around me was stunned in confusion, fear, and lack of comprehension. They looked around to see where the bullet had landed and noticed him, a man in his late forties looking down at his stomach. The hand that covered the area was stained with a thick, dark red color that coated his clothing. The crowd drew away from him as he fell to his knees, just realizing that he’d been shot and he was going to die. When he looked up at the police, they looked away, ashamed of their actions and unaware of the impact his death would have on his family, his friends.

“That was a dog. These will be people. Living, talking human beings.” She slows her pace, marching beside me. “Can you take another person’s life if yours is threatened or will you freeze?”

These walls mock me. I can't escape this confinement. I've studied everything in my cell, the walls, the floor, bed, door, window, every pattern, every inch top to bottom. I see scars carved into the wall from people counting their days away. I count every second, minute, hour that i'm stuck in here, everyone seems to be longer than the next. It's hard not to think back to that moment but sometimes I can't help it. His voice fills my thoughts, every time I hear him it brings me back to that moment. The cool air of the night whistled through my town, as i turn off my car i hear the engine cutting off. I stop take and take a deep breath, i reach over to the glove box and grab the glock 45 the cold steel touches my hand. I put it in my jacket and walk into the store. I hold the gun up to him and say “give me the money” his face drops he tells me you don't want to do this to stop, it's too late now though there's no turning back. He throws the money on the floor, as i go to pick it up he grabs something from under the counter. I freak out and pull the trigger, i didn't mean to, i didn't want anyone to get hurt. It feels fake replaying over and over. Every sound, every smell, every emotion. I remember the whole night. I can't do

I run just run. Bam bam more shots go off but they miss me by just a hair. how lucky i am to not have been killed i think to myself. I find myself running back to the apartment I'm forced to call home either Nazi’s on my heel. Run up the stairs lock the doors place something heavy to stop them. I keep telling myself. I wasnt able to block the door securely. The Nazi’s barged in shot me an

Then she made sure the barrel was empty, and then she saw something in the corner of her eye. There had been a piece of paper, she had overlooked, when she looked at it she was surprised to see it was a ransom note. The handwriting of the ransom note looked vaguely familiar. She bagged it and tagged it, after which she put it in a box along with the, now bagged and tagged, 9 millimeter gun. She heard screams that night but they were only her imagination, at least, they stopped after a minute or two.

“Who are you?” Her large grey eyes now seem more menacing than beautiful. She quickly draws her sword, seemingly angered by his presence.

He catches my fist, his big hand overwhelming mine and twisting it back. A whimper barely escapes my lips, as he knocks my hand down and his fist collides with my upper stomach. I double over, gasping for air, unable to breath. Breath, my brain yells at me in a panic. And in that panic, I reach for his knife on his belt. He sees me coming from a mile away.

“Please get to my house as fast as you can. Cooper’s not leaving.” I wondered what she had meant. I knew that she had planned on breaking up with him, but why wasn’t he leaving? I knew that he was loud and practically verbally abusive, but why would she want me to come? I panic, I freeze, and I’m practically useless in certain situations. I was already a bit worried. I did know one thing though. My best friend needed me. I didn’t know what to expect, so I grabbed my brass knuckles. They were the only weapon-like thing in my possession, and would help at least a little in case things got bad. I tucked those, a mini flashlight, and my phone into my pockets. At times like this, I was glad to have men’s pants. The pocket room was definitely worth mother’s complaining. I put on my favorite hoodie and I tied my high tops. I realized that this was a lot of black to wear at night.

"We can't do that, not after the threat you pulled earlier." The same man says referring to the alchemy I had attacked them with moments ago.

I feel a big strong hand grab my arm and pull me to a stop. I scream as loud as my little voice and go. Hitting him he grabs my other hand twisting it hard, sending a screaming pain up my arm. Letting go of both my arms. He covers my mouth so I won’t scream, taking his other hand he places is on my back and gets lower and lower down my back. I start to squirm and to get out of his grip but it’s so tight. He start to pull up my dress revealing my underwear. I tried to kick him but he shoved me on the floor, hitting my head hard on a branch. Going dizzy I can feel him climbing on top of me lifting my dress up higher. I wanted to scream, I wanted to run far away, I wish I had listened to my mom. But I couldn’t run away, or scream I was so dizzy from hitting my head I blacked

Dambudzo Marechera writes of the insanity he feels as a result of his own desperate racial confusion and accompanying self hatred in Black Skin What Masks. In this story Marechera begins by placing the overall notion of discomfort that accompanies one’s skin being black on the same level as an unnamed friend. The description of the friend points very clearly to different levels of insanity while simultaneously, the reader’s attention is constantly being brought back to the point at hand, the issue of race. Ultimately, the main character’s (author’s) discomfort regarding his racial identity and his efforts to change that are displayed as a completely separate persona from