There’s a cane house over looking the blue green Caribbean. In the distant past, raw sugar cane sat waiting to be processed. Today, there’s something else waiting. No sugary sweet smells. Just the stench of what was.
The tourists walk by, stop and take selfie. But the cobblestone building doesn’t invite you inside. Seneca wasn’t asked, she just ended up here. Not a holiday trip of a lifetime.
The sugar sand beach stretches a couple hundred yards to reach the water. Behind lies a parched cluster of palms. They are a little more worse for wear. Behind-the-scenes guys weave fish, flowers, and hats from their leaves. This is the trail grin which she came.
Seneca wakes up in what seems like an oven. Hot stale air burns lungs and the smell of rotten food and urine assault her nose. Battered, more than a little bruised. The question we ask too much in life appears on her lips.
” How did I get here?”