The Color Black

I wake to the sound of church bells. They fill the air with their chimes and dings, signaling the eighth hour of the day. There are voices outside, shouting something in a language I do not understand.

The room is dark and cold. I open my eyes and look down. My bare legs are covered by a thin blanket, if you could even call it that. The fabric practically falls apart when I touch it. It smells like rain and dirt.

I try and search the room for something to cover myself with. The cold wraps itself around me. Goosebumps appear up and down my arms. Where are my clothes? I feel around for familiar fabrics, but nothing appears in front of me.

I check under the bed. There is nothing but dust and cobwebs. I stand up and reach to clean the dust from my hair, only to find nothing there. In a panic, I touch my head. The smooth skin surprises me, and I let out a short scream.

My hair! I want to shout. Where is my hair?! I try to remember what my hair used to feel like, how the coils–did I even have coils?–felt against my fingers, the color shining in my reflection. But nothing comes to mind.

Outside, the yelling gets louder. I look out the small window, if something so small even qualifies as such. It looks more like a hole in the wall where the builders forgot to place another stone. I stare at the courtyard below me. There are men in black uniforms shouting and hollering, while smaller men move in perfect unison. I look closely at the rows of men and realize that none of them are men. They are boys. Boys with shaved heads and matching black uniforms moving in sync with each other. They look to the older men with fear, avoiding eye contact if they can help it. Their movements are precise and sharp. None of them dares to say anything as they are given their commands.

The stone fence surrounding the courtyard blocks my view of the surroundings, but from what I can see, the fortress we are in sits along the delta of a large river. Outside the fence, there is nothing but sea for miles. The waves are rough and choppy, crashing against the rocky shore and spraying foam into the air. I can’t imagine how the water must feel. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen the ocean.

I look down at my body. There are purple bruises on my arms. The ones on my legs are starting to turn yellow. When I press my finger on them, pain shoots up my body. I move my hands up my torso, where a scratch stretches across my stomach. My stomach growls. It feels lighter than normal. I cannot recall the last time I ate something. I cannot recall anything.

As time goes on, I wonder if someone will come in to see me. There must be a reason I am here. There is nothing on the wall, no signs, no writing, nothing to tell me what I am doing here, where I am, or where I will be going. From the looks of the boys outside, it doesn’t seem like I’ll be going anywhere. My head matches theirs. The shouting continues.

From down the hall, I can hear footsteps getting louder. The steps are evenly paced, with an exact number of seconds between each movement. I try to think about who could be attached to those steps; is it one of the men in black from below? I am not in a state to do exercises. My body aches. My head pounds. Maybe they could explain the bruises and the scratches.

When the steps reach my door, my heart jumps into my throat. I pull the blanket up to my body, trying to wrap it around my chest. The blanket smells like sweat. When was the last time I bathed?

The door opens and I freeze in place. In walks not one of the men from the courtyard, but a woman. Her hair is covered with a black cloth, and she wears a white tunic that covers most of her body. All that is exposed are her forearms and hands.

“Good morning,” she says. Her voice is sweet and gentle. “You are finally awake.”

I don’t respond. I don’t know how.

“You gave us quite a scare, you know.”

I clench my jaw. Should I apologize? What for?

“Do you remember what happened to you?” she asks, walking to my bed. I shake my head. “Do you remember your name?”

My name. My name is… I search the far corners of my brain, but there is nothing that helps me. I shake my head again. Tears form in my eyes. A few spill out onto my cheeks and drip down my chin, staining the bedsheets.

“Do not cry, my child,” the woman says to me. “Your name is not important here. We are all no one to the God of Death.”

A lump forms in my throat. What is she talking about? The God of Death?

“Where am I?” I whisper. My voice is hoarse and my throat is dry.

“You tried to join Death after a terrible flood destroyed your home. But the God of Death said you were not ready. The God brought you back to us, to watch you until you are.”

I look out the window at the courtyard. “And those boys? They all serve the God of Death?”

“We all learn to serve in due time. We face nonbelievers. Those boys are there to protect us from them.”

I look down at my feet and hands. My toe and fingernails have been cut. I look to the woman, and she nods in response.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Three months,” the woman says. “You gave us quite a scare.”

I glance at the bruises on my arms and legs. They look fresh. They certainly would not have stayed for three months, let alone be this color.

“You suffered from seizures during your sleep,” the woman explained. I wondered if she could read my mind. “Nasty things. Scary things. Your body and soul were trapped in the space between life and death. When one approaches a side, and the other does not, they are at war with each other. The battle is terrifying and deadly.”

“But I lived,” I say. The woman nods.

“But you lived.” She studies my confused expression, and I could see the remnants of a smile creep across her face. “You do not remember your time before your sleep.”

“No.”

The woman doesn’t say anything. “It is not important now.”

My stomach turns. I feel unsure if I should believe her. While we spoke, she did not blink. She seemed unfazed by the shouting outside or my naked body.

“You will stay here until it is time for you to join the servants outside. A healer will be here shortly to tend to your wounds.”

“Will I get one of those uniforms?” I point to the boys outside in black. The woman nods, and gets up from my bed. She reaches for the door, pulling it open, but standing still in the doorway. The candles that line the hallway illuminate her body and cast a shadow across her face.

“Trust, boy, they will suit you well. The color black looks good on everybody.”