Stockholm
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Devon, Devon, Devon.
The name was like a chant, a mantra keeping her alive her three days in the hospital. The stuck needles and tubes in her and she faded in and out of consciousness.
They didn't know they were the problem. She knew they thought he was - she knew they were wrong.
She tossed and turned at night, tangling herself up in her sheets and life support, forgetting to breath but remembering the most painful ways to cry and scream.
Stockholm Syndrome, they whispered to her fragile mother, who believed them.
Kennedy knew they were wrong. At least, she thought so. What she really thought was that if they caught Devon, they'd kill him.
It wracked her body with spasms. Painful spasms.
They left her alone on the third night. She was tired, she was weak, and she just wanted something real to eat.
Devon, Devon, Devon.
He was wearing a white coat when he came in, like a doctor.
She tried to sit up, but couldn't, not really. She didn't have the strength, but that might have been her own doing; giving up saps you of energy, of life.
"Devon," she whispered, her voice hoarse. He looked at her with pain in his eyes.
"They won't let us be together," he replied. She reached up and touched his smooth, brown skin.
"Take me away."
He picked her delicate frame up and place it in a wheel chair.
Stockholm Syndrome.
Because she loved a black man, because they had to run away, that meant she was brainwashed.
Kennedy and Devon ran away and neither one of them ever looked back.
They gave up the search not very long after.
Her mother died of grief.
Kennedy lived.
She really lived.
The name was like a chant, a mantra keeping her alive her three days in the hospital. The stuck needles and tubes in her and she faded in and out of consciousness.
They didn't know they were the problem. She knew they thought he was - she knew they were wrong.
She tossed and turned at night, tangling herself up in her sheets and life support, forgetting to breath but remembering the most painful ways to cry and scream.
Stockholm Syndrome, they whispered to her fragile mother, who believed them.
Kennedy knew they were wrong. At least, she thought so. What she really thought was that if they caught Devon, they'd kill him.
It wracked her body with spasms. Painful spasms.
They left her alone on the third night. She was tired, she was weak, and she just wanted something real to eat.
Devon, Devon, Devon.
He was wearing a white coat when he came in, like a doctor.
She tried to sit up, but couldn't, not really. She didn't have the strength, but that might have been her own doing; giving up saps you of energy, of life.
"Devon," she whispered, her voice hoarse. He looked at her with pain in his eyes.
"They won't let us be together," he replied. She reached up and touched his smooth, brown skin.
"Take me away."
He picked her delicate frame up and place it in a wheel chair.
Stockholm Syndrome.
Because she loved a black man, because they had to run away, that meant she was brainwashed.
Kennedy and Devon ran away and neither one of them ever looked back.
They gave up the search not very long after.
Her mother died of grief.
Kennedy lived.
She really lived.