In My Eyes

Civil War: Ch•1- Tarzan & Jane

Captain America: Civil War

         The wall at my back felt cold, as if ice from the outside atmosphere was creeping in and seeping into my skin.  A frigid draft poured in from the murky ceiling above and onto the floor where I was sitting. My knees were pulled into my chest with my arms were wrapped securely around them, providing the only hint of security in me in that moment. I could see my reflection in the glass window of the cell. A blue jumpsuit covered my small body, my brunette hair was matted to my head. Sweat clung to all parts of my body, and my nose was running. My eyes were red from the sobbing. Every ounce of my body felt fragile, like one gust of air could knock me down for good.

          The sound of the ocean pounded against the exterior of the facility that imprisoned me, and the smell of polished metal and sweat lingered in the air. There have been several instances in my life where I've ended up in unprecedented situations. Locked in closets, falling from roofs, held hostage by caucasians with surprisingly Chinese names. That's one that I'm still working to wrap my head around. 

         I can only assume that you all are wondering what in the world is going on, and why I'm sitting inside of a cell as if I'm Al Capone? Why is the ocean pounding against the wall? The best way to start a story is en medius res, or at least that's what my English teacher taught last month in creative writing. Well, I suppose I'll have to start from the beginning. 

       ***

         New York City, the big apple itself, always seeming to be bustling with a diverse range of people, noises, smells, and just about anything that you could possibly imagine. Down 47th street, a wealthy girl, perhaps the daughter of CEO, strolled down the sidewalk with her poodle and was talking loudly on her bedazzled phone. And further down, a tired looking Dad was gripping his two children's hands, his tie hanging loosely around his collar. A man with dreads sat in Times Square playing bongo drums along side a handful of performers wearing costumes. They stood around the square and snapped pictures with pedestrians for money outside of the Forever 21. 

          Most of them wore Iron Man onesies or green Hulk masks. They would extend the phones out, capturing the entire group in the shot, and say "cheese", demanding for fifteen dollars in return. Hundreds of people walked around the cement square that day, beneath the vibrant array of glowing, electronic billboards. A group of people stood listening to the drummer tapping his bongo just outside of the shrimp factory. Across the way, a family was leaving the Winter Garden Theatre, while some sat inside of the vintage-style restaurants. The sound of clanking knifes and forks can be heard from inside the wide glass windows. A small collection of people giggled as they emerged from the Sephora, passing by the diner window, in-preparation to run home and try on their new cosmetics. They squeezed in among the Times Square crowd, their striped bags bumping against others on the sidewalk. 

          One of the make-up bags smacked against the arm of a girl who stood alone at the edge of the sidewalk. This girl who dawned a Malibu sports-club cap and dark sunglasses glanced at the Sephora consumers who mumbled an apology of sorts as they continued into the disorganization of the square. She offered a subtle shrug in return, the only thing she held in her hand was a water-bottle. She didn't stick out in many ways, but instead fell into place with her black jeans and sweatshirt. Nobody batted an eye as she went about her business alone. No one questioned the two identical wrist watches on both of her arms that glistened underneath the yellow Hamilton billboard. The clocks shape on the watch is square, and not circled like most.