"Son of a---!" Hemmings had done what he'd threatened, and staked her out in the center of the courtyard Lord only knew where. Tess' vices had once again done her in. She should never have had that last drink with him, especially after she'd won that last hand. Hemmings could not handle losing.
There was nothing to do but wait until he got over it and came to cut her loose.
Her mind was clearing, and she admired the luxuriant, verdant display hanging from the balconies above her. It was unusual to see any living plants these days, with the sun bearing down so viciously. Or perhaps humanity didn't want reminders of what had been lost; the plants in this abandoned building seemed to be thriving.
A rustling noise, like the forgotten whisper of leaves rustling in the wind, had Tess turning her head, trying to localize the sound. It seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, and whatever it was made her skin crawl. There was nothing that she could see from her limited view, except the sunlight illuminating the vines above her.
A gurgling sound echoed through the courtyard.
"Hemmings, that had better be you!" Tess was ready to do whatever she needed to do, make amends, beg forgiveness, sleep with the man--anything, as long as he got her out of here.
The rustling was almost constant now, and Tess finally noticed that the fertile green vines were undulating down the balconies and walls toward her. She finally understood how these plants had thrived. She screamed then, until her vocal cords gave out.
Moisture hit her right hand, and she turned her head. Dark red blood, spilling from somewhere beyond her vision, was pooling, coagulating in the fine hairs on her arm, the puddle spreading closer to her cheek. Tess turned her head and shut her eyes; Hemmings wouldn't be coming.
The first vine encircled her ankle.
***
“Go oft to the house of thy friend, for weeds choke the unused path.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson
― Ralph Waldo Emerson
Image courtesy of Unsplash.
