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She looked out the broken window of the greenhouse, knowing she would run. As soon as he let her go, she would run. 


His fingernails were dirty, they were always dirty, she stared at them capping the fingertips buried in her bicep. He was holding her tight today, tighter than usual. 


She wondered if the plant stems could hear what was happening. They also lay, bent, grasping for life. Moments of green bleeding through the brown. Pots, like coffins holding bulbs broken, and thirsty. 


The smell of warm earth, manure, dusty glass, and him.


He sounds like a pig when he grunts as he does, and grunt he does, as he does what he does...


A cloud moved away from the sun and the tall grass in the field outside lit up, golden. She could watch it dance and leave herself alone for a moment, letting the grass hiss as it waved at her be the only song she heard.  If only for a moment, a moment, more than none. 


As soon as he let her go, she would run. 


The taste of dirt, a different perspective, but it was the usual route. She watched the tiny balls of Styrofoam move back and forth with her breathing. They were always in the potting soil, always, waiting. 


His sweat dripped into the dirt, into her hair, and into the smell on her skin. A smell of vinegar, cigarettes, and sin. A bird in the distance cries out in the sun.


As soon as he let her go, she would run. 


The green house was dying, but in the corners grew life. Spiders and beetles, and bugs. There were butterflies, little buds that tried, and places she could hide. In your mind, you can go anywhere you like. 


The pressure lifted, his fingertips drifted. The end would always come. 


As soon as he let her go, she would run. 


Her breath returned to the numbness around her waist. A belt she had worn for always.  So tiny, like a bird. 


A bird in the hands of a man. 


He let her go, and she ran.


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