Billy Johnson two ROZA Virginia Harris We were alone now, just the two of us; she, Roza, Rossia, an inmate of the State Training School, kneeling beside the narrow cot saying her evening prayers; and I, made a prisoner by the spring rains, sitting on the edge of that cot thinking. I was supposed to be composing a verse that Roza had requested me to write in the memory book she had handed me, but I wasn't. I was hating the world and all it possessed, hating it because here I was, a healthy and fairly intelligent person, cast for the evening with "low-grades," "nuts," "bugs," or whatever you call them. If I were down there, down there with people and the bright lights, I should be laughing, singing, and dancing.- Then, at least, I could pretend I was happy. But here! Oh! God! I shudder whenever I think of those blank faces, those deformed bodies. Who could even pretend happiness here? Here I had come to give a bit of joy and entertain "them" for an evening. Then the storm came and I had to stay. I loathed every drop of rain that fell, and every inch it fell on, every one who heard it fall; yes, even this girl beside me. They were cheating me. If it had not been for them Yes, if! But I wasn't gone; I was still here, here, alone with that horrible excuse for a human being. What a pity it couldn't have been buried long ago. As far as I was concerned, after tonight the whole place would be buried deep in my memory. That is what I thought then, but that was before it happened, before it came to change everything; my outlook, my attitude toward these people, toward myself, toward life itself. Roza had just finished her prayer when the lightning flashed through the bars of the tiny window Thunder followed. The lights flickered (as they often do in small towns), then faded out. We were alone, in the dark. I felt a cold, bony hand seize my wrist. The light came on. The expression of that grey face turned up to mine was blood-curdling enough, but those eyes! They seemed to sneer at the hatred I felt as though they knew every thought that had entered my mind during the entire evening. No, they weren't. They were doing some hating. Like the eyes of a mad dog, defiant, rebellious, but underneath it all there was fear and bewilderment. She made one effort to rise before darkness came again. Her mad grip tightened; each bony finger cut my wrist like a knife; blood oozed from the scratches made by her cat-like fingernails. To be truthful, I was paralyzed with terror. What if she were not content with torturing me? I had heard that "they" have sometimes strangled or smothered their victims. No one could have heard me above the thunder, even if I had cried for help. All I could muster was a rasping whisper, "Roza, what is wrong? Don't you feel well? I'll get---" But she wasn't listening. The pressure of her hold never changed. She made one more effort to rise. Suddenly she released my arm and uttered a plaintive whine. I heard her head strike the bare floor. Then, until the lights came on, all was silent except for her irregular, heavy gasping for breath. I sat there stupified. Spellbound, I watched the quivering bundle of unconscious flesh and bones (each had a different movement, a different rhythm, almost fascinating), until the attendants came. They stretched out the twisted limbs so they could jerk more freely and left her there on the cold bare floor. That was all they could do until she recovered from her epileptic seizure. That was almost five years ago, but even yet, when the wind howls and rain beats down, I feel a phantom hand seize my aching wrist; I see those eyes and hear that whine, the whine of a dog that is beaten by its master, and knows not why! Then all is silent. three