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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