The Black Girl Survives in This One: "The Black Strings" by Vincent Tirado

I’ve always been able to see black strings, the physical embodiment of an oncoming death.

The string over Essie’s head was taunting me, filling me with a deep well of anguish that made me want to scream.

Auntie Rose thought I was too standoffish because I didn’t like being hugged so hard my bones cracked.

I was always considered the black sheep of the family.

Even the most mundane activities suddenly became very important.

Her voice dropped a little low like she was afraid someone was listening in, and there was a passing sneer when she said Riley’s name.

“Can’t see why. I’ve never met a man with a bigger sense of entitlement—especially toward women, if you know what I mean. Between you and me, I wouldn’t mind if the guy dropped dead. But anyway, I’ll see you downstairs in a few minutes.”

“Carla just wants all of us to be … nice to each other. No sabotage and all that. You seem pretty young to be in this contest, though.”

“I’m autistic—not naive. And besides—”
My words were cut off by a sudden echo of metal clanging behind the elevator doors.

A malfunction in the elevator as it took him up to the twelfth floor caused the whole thing to come crashing down.

Even though Quinn was choking, we could resuscitate her—the brain could survive for up to twelve minutes without oxygen.

Her body teetered on that edge—then both her hands loosened.

They always appeared when death was close, unraveling when death was imminent, and then snapping in half before disappearing forever.

What could be manipulating them?

A moment of panic came to me as I wondered whether removing it meant I would not die—but the string was still intact.