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Challenge of the Week CCXXXI
You're in an alley, against a wall, and you're in deep. You really let go of the wheel this time, took a loan from a certain group of, well, shiny dark-haired gentlemen of the city streets. You changed your looks, moved to the east side of town to avoid them, but they have you now, by the wrist, modified cigar cutter ready, two of them smiling at you while the third has your neck in the crease of his elbow. Your four fingers and thumb splayed above your wrist in grip, you have to answer the question, "Which one? If you don't pick now, we take two." Write a poem or story about what put you in that alley, your pick of digit, and the experience, the aftermath of adaptation, if you want, the whole story, if the story goes that far for you. And don't even think about not entering, because we know people, you know? - Winner gets 25 bucks. Go.
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Fabulam
31 reads

If I Could Trade

I glare at the man in charge of my being held in a vice grip, refusing to beg knowing at this point that they will not care. Ever shifting hazel eyes are set in a sculpted face, he could be an angel, but only one who fell. I can’t help but compare his to the one I have loved.

“ Which one? If you don't pick now, we take two,” the man’s deep voice questions. The eyes may technically be the same color as the eyes of the man I loved, but my husband’s had been kinder than the ones I look into now.

I wish that I had enough money to pay them, but I wish even more that I could have back the missing piece of my soul. The experimental treatment had been worth those few extra months, even if this is the price I must now pay. I would have given the whole hand if the cancer would have gone away, with the treatment that money had paid for.

“Ring finger,” I rasp, keeping my eyes locked on the leader, refusing to look at his two henchman. It is not like I need that finger for anything anymore.

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