Dance
It’s a cruel melody when you are doomed to die. I sing and dance for the entertainment of my tormentors. Their twisted faces leering at me as I twirl and dip, my suggestive skirts swirling around my bare thighs.
The music is drowned out by the banging of crude ale cups and weapon hilts. My step falters in fear, my eyes dart around the savage faces blurring as I spin down to crouch on the sticky table top.
My breath pants against the seer purple material covering my nose and mouth, sweat beads on my forehead and trails down my temples. My heart is hammering against my knee, my limbs shaking with the effort to stay still.
The men around me were quiet, the sound of them slurping their tasteless spirits and eating their burnt meats filling my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated on my breathing. My eyes opened a moment later when a loud booming voice bid me to stand.
My knees shook with effort and I rose shakily to my feet, my hands by my sides, my head down as I waited for the verdict of my faith.
His voice boomed over me, causing me to flinch, the men laughed at my expense. I flushed angrily but wisely kept quiet, hiding the sight of my eyes from my tormentors.
I felt a hand on my ankle, I resisted the urge to kick it off me. The feel of the slippery wet skin sliding against me caused me to shudder, a sickness to rise up my throat. I viciously pushed it down and the hand retreated back to its owner.
A loud crash sounded in front of me, I jolted and my head jerked up to see the leader of them approaching me, his weapon held at his side. The blood stained blade captured my attention as he raised the sword above my head. I met his soulless eyes as the blade came down with a shrill whistle, or was that merely my scream?
BURN
My skin caught on fire at the first touch of the match against my oil soaked skin. The flames burst to life along my arm, my screams muffled against the gag as my hair and skin sizzled at the intense heat.
The woman that light the flame jumped back at the sudden flare and whistled in amazement.
“That caught faster than I thought.” She laughed as she threw the match away in a heavy pewter ashtray.
My screams made my throat raw, my busted lips bleeding against the cloth shoved in my mouth as I tried to jerk my arms from the restraints. The pain was indescribable, the reality of it surreal. My back seized in pain and I arched up away from the pain, my cooked arm shaking uncontrollably, the nerves dancing with intense pain.
My tormentor gasped and retrieved the bucket full of water. She threw it on the flames, the pressure of the water on my skin made me scream before blacking out from shock and lack of air.
Rejection Stings
“I would love to dissipate my time with you, but my ideal specification is just too high for you.” She shrugged at the young man holding the bouquet of multicolored roses and breezed past him, her high heels clicking smartly against the hardwood floor, her sweet flowery perfume lingering behind to taunt him.
The young man watched her walk away, her hips sashaying as she strutted for the VIP elevator to take her to the executive floor. Several people along the way wished her a good morning, but she stubbed her nose at them with a regal nod of her head and continued on her way.
“I told you she would reject you man.” His friend came out from around the corner and clapped him on the shoulder in comfort.
“She doesn’t think I am good enough for her standards.” He said tightly, his fists closing over the stems of the flowers, the fragile petals shaking in his fury.
His friend grimaced, he knew that Ms. Crestfell wanted a rich man to shower her in lavish expensive gifts and take her to exotic vacation spots. Oliver was a lowly salary man who could barely afford a decent apartment in the city.
“Don’t listen to her Oliver, you’re a great man any woman would appreciate. She is just a cunt.”
Oliver snorted and started toward his office wing. He worked in the west wing, he was part of the coding team for the company. They made what the top floor envisioned come to life.
They were greeted by the west wing receptionist. A chubby woman with rimless round glasses and a penance for wearing abstract dressed. She smiled warmly at them and welcomed them in.
Oliver plopped the slightly wilted flowers on her desk and her face instantly crumbled as tears threatened to fall. “Oh Oliver, did it not go well?”
Her concerned face turned up to his has she gathered the flowers lovingly and found a small vase to put them in.
“She said I wasn’t up to her standards.” Oliver relayed through clenched teeth. The reminder of her snobby attitude grinding on his nerves.
The woman shook her head sadly and fluffed the flowers gently, reviving them with some of her bottled water. “Ms. Hottie-Tottie is not the nicest person.”
She pushed her glasses up her face and her face flushed pink, “You are a great catch Mr. Quill, any girl would be lucky to have you.”
Oliver nodded, the woman’s clear affection for him bypassing him. “Thanks Barbara.” He smiled at her as he walked through the controlled chaos that was their section.
“Why don’t you forget about Ms. Crestfell and find you a woman that will appreciate you, like Barbara, she clearly adores you.” His friend said looking back at Barbara as she sniffed happily at the roses.
Oliver ignored his friend and took his seat at his desk, diving into his work, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he copied a three page code sequence.