The cotton stands tall and hopeful as the manor house slowly sucks the last of the auspicious light from its landscape. The house stands there worn and tired from generations of oppressing the white budded paddock that hides within its shadow. Alas it has no choice. Its feet are cemented to the ground, it can not escape, it is obliged to be a witness to all the crimes that take place within its neighbouring cotton field.  

It is sunset and the prowling black shadows imprison the white rigid cotton heads. Nature adjusts her perception of the dominant shade. Yet the sky remains confused and hangs there in an ombre dress of orange, bleeding into a deep red, hemmed with insignificant stars. Hidden in the lower bowels of the cotton field squats a frightened little shack, disregarded and mistreated like the occupants which rest within. The inhabitants, imprisoned by the broken walls, nestle down after a long day’s work. Their blisters, sunburns and aching muscles moaning with gratitude. 

A low grumble initiates in the stomach of the manor house. The clink of glass on glass and the menacing squeal of an opening door. 

Listen. You can hear the staggered footsteps only seconds before the air is infiltrated with the smell of burning liquor. The pail obscenity stumbles down the perfectly composed white front steps and into the maze of cotton. Unexplainably it finds the way to its goal. The timid little shed crouching, hiding in the oncoming darkness. White meets the weathered brown door handle and with a wail the last remaining barrier of safety is broken. Glaring around the predator seeks its prey, and pronounces. Choked and forced down into the decrepit bed frame the girl retreats inwards. The white hands struggle with the delicate yellow-flowered skirt and rip it from its place. Like a beautifully crafted wrapping off a chocolate. The scratching of dirt-filled nails upon a metal buckle is only just audible between the girls swallowed screams. A pile of linen is collected on the floor. Folds upon folds creating a sea of miss matching colours. 

The arrow sinks into its target, cuts open the passage and forces all of its existence into the girl. White meets black. And no beautiful blend is produced only the escape of crimson running down the side of the girl’s bony leg. The weapon descends deep, even deeper inside its prey. Hot and swollen liquid seeping from the end of its tip. Low mournful grunts slap off the walls of the dilapidated hut. Hitting hard and fast, staggered and frightened like the heartbeat of the girl. The screams are muffled as pain overcomes the rhythm. A white boat riding upon a small black sea. Stiff. Rigid. Iced over.  

It is twilight and the darkness has finally ingested the whole landscape. It is not the beautiful kind of twilight, it’s the dark swallowing type. The type that eats out your soul and feeds upon all the horrors in the world. The type that has no pity. Shows no remorse. It flourishes in this environment. This is why it visits every single night… to feast.

Look. Pools of blood mix with sweat in the shallow folds of the collapsed mattress. Deep shades of purple swim beneath the surface of brown skin, threatening to escape. The weapon withdraws and as it does it leaves a trail of its existence behind. The sea of clothes is disturbed as the man reaches down to pick up his semen-stained belongings and stumbles from the shack. The darkness finally reaches the last of the fleeting light source, floating above a pool of wax. Like the girl lying curled upon herself the last glimmer of light gives up, it gives in… all light is extinguished. Everything is dark. 

You stand there helpless, in the complete darkness, staring down upon the figure of your older sister. Her body lies broken just like the bed she rests upon. Ripped and raw. Opened up and thrown aside like an unwanted present. You peer through the darkness out onto the surrounding field and you realise the cotton lies limp and weak. 

-Aimee Mcarthur