She woke up naked in an empty, white room.
It felt like a spear had lodged itself in her brain, and as she examined her cold skin, she was struck by the pattern of bruises lacing around her wrists, up her arms, criss-crossing her torso, and making their way down her legs. Cradling the bruises were continuous shallow impressions in her flesh.
Licking her cracked lips, and running her hand through her wet, tangled hair, she heard footsteps on concrete grow from soft, to louder, to silent. She could not find a door with her eyes, but she could hear the clanking of keys, and banging of metal that told her some sort of entrance was being unlocked. A door materialized out of the white cloud of space, and a man, dressed in a suit entered and walked toward her.
Every fiber of her being told her to run, but some small, primitive kernel at the base of her brain told her to stay, to roll over at his feet, and offer herself up to his granite eyes.
He knelt down and carefully picked her up, easily accepting the weight of her, stood and walked back out the way he had come.
She woke up naked in an empty white room.
The rules for this Friday’s Flash Fiction:
keyword…”liberation, but not freedom”
word count: 199-209
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I don’t do this often…but really, I’ve read some really good shit recently – really provocative, inspiring stuff. I encourage you to head on over and read…
I’m not very good at keeping up with comments. In fact, I’ll be honest – I won’t comment on your stuff unless I really have something say. I do not feel compelled to comment on peoples’ blogs just so they will come and visit mine to do the same. So you can rest assured that if I comment, you have genuinely struck a chord with me. Not that you care…but…
And, since I am sort of combining this with Thursday’s HNT post…so I can focus on Dear Sir tomorrow (yes, love…I have something in store for you – and BTW…thanks for the before-you-went-to-work fuck – it was necessary), here’s a little P.S.:
|The Lustful Literate…yes, all I’m wearing is the cardigan…|