The Change, Part 3
by Scott Walker

The Cell In The Field

Bright light shone through the window, destroying the dark serenity that owned the room. Four concrete walls, each splintered and cracked from age, surrounded the room. A single window, smaller than that of a car door, served as the catalyst for the shining light. The window, square and composed of hard glass, was the only break in concrete. In essence, the room was simple and ugly.

The floor was covered in bright and colorful flowers. Each flower, fully blossomed and beautiful in their composure, achieved a color spectrum almost impossible to describe. There were no red roses, or any color that simple. Instead, the roses were blue and although bright and pleasing, an entirely impossible, green. Each flower, of the dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of them, grew out of the cracked concrete. It seemed that the ugly concrete obscenity that was the room couldn't contain the outside beauty that would eventually creep in from any angle. The flowers blew from an unseen and impossible breeze.

Pierre sat up and then stood in the midst of the flowers. He wasn't leery from sleep, or downtrodden in the least. He was fully awake, aware and ready to move. He examined the room, hoping to find another method of escape than the tiny window. The room was solid, impossible to enter or escape from. How did I get here?

Pierre went to the window and looked out. The world outside the cell was comprised of a sea of black roses. Each rose, blowing in a different direction, dancing to a breeze. The flowers rose and fell, like hills and valleys. Over a hill far off in the distance, a figure approached. It was Pierre, dressed in white, innocently walking towards the cell. He walking through the flowers, while each one moved out of his way. The flowers created an opening for him to pass, bouncing back and resuming their dance when he had gone. Pierre in the cell watched as Innocent Pierre walked closer to the cell. Mesmerized, he tried to talk; hoping to alert Innocent Pierre to his presence, but the words floated out of his mouth, crystallized and fell to the floor, shattering into pieces of ice.

Innocent Pierre continued to approach the cell, never looking directly in that direction. Finally, Innocent Pierre stood directly outside the cell, seemingly unconcerned with its contents. Pierre in the cell tried to pound on the concrete, realizing the futility of speech, but the concrete echoed loudly but densely in the cell. Innocent Pierre circled the room, returning to the window's view after a moment.

Pierre in the cell stared out the window, waiting impatiently for Innocent Pierre to look at him. Instead, Innocent Pierre began to run his hand lightly over the black roses, admiring their motion and soft texture. Never looking up, Innocent Pierre smiled at the feel of the roses at his fingertips.

A dark figure emerged from the roses behind Innocent Pierre. The figure, tall and broad, his hair as dark as the black roses, towered inches above Innocent Pierre. In the cell, Pierre yelled, but not a sound was uttered, ice crystals crashing to the floor created echoes inside the concrete hell.

The dark figure smiled and looked directly into the cell, locking eyes with Pierre. Pierre in the cell stepped back, but couldn't force himself to break the stare. The dark figure, his eyes blood red, seemed to put Pierre into a trance. The figure raised his head and opened his mouth, revealing a sea of razor sharp teeth. The figure leaned in over Innocent Pierre, inches from his neck. The figure paused an inch from his neck, Pierre still staring at the flowers, totally unaware of the imminent danger. The dark figure looked directly into the cell, smiled and moved in.

The roses suddenly grew to heights unimagined. The black roses grew over the dark figure and Innocent Pierre, hiding them from sight. Pierre in the cell tried to move his head, hoping to find the pair through cracks of vision. The roses began to shrink back to normal size, revealing emptiness.

Inside the cell, Pierre continued to stare out the window. From nowhere, a mist began to rise from the floor, through the blue and green roses. The figure slowly rose from the mist and approached Pierre, raising his hands. The roses in the cell withered, died and grew back instantly in the same desperate black as the roses outside the cell.

From within the cell, a shadow began to rise in the shape of the figure, but the remainder of the wall blackened and the shadows were lost. The figure stood behind Pierre, breathing heavily in anticipation. Pierre stood at the window, lost in his efforts to locate the dark stranger and his own self, innocently lost in the beauty of the sea of roses. The dark figure slowly approached Pierre, trampling the roses in the cell, but not creating a sound. Standing behind Pierre, the Dark figure wiped a tear of blood from its left eye before it fell to its cheek, opened its mouth and moved in for the kill.

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