The Captive
She’s trying to be strong. Not like so many times before. Honestly, this is abuse. She has a punch-drunk sense of reason at this point. The distance is old, the winter is long and he’s always in control. It’s old shoe and she’s had enough this time.
Slow deliberate steps in the hallway foreshadow another round of “training”. Prisoners of war might have difficulty withstanding this abuse. She’s sure her rib is broken, but to be fair, she did ask for it. “Discipline is a faithful navigator” he would say. He even sounds handsome when he speaks…..maybe ruthlessly handsome she thinks and starts to deliriously giggle to herself when a million needles stab her in the lungs.
She’s been chained up down here for days seems like. She’s battered, bruised, twisted; her internal organs feel like they’re shutting down. It’s been at least a day since she’s seen him, and she’s thirsty and scared. He taunted her repeatedly asking “why do you do this for yourself?. I need to train you better”. She honestly doesnt know, but she needs water she knows that. And everything hurts.
She knows one thing, she’ll take some measure of power back. He’ll release her at some point, and she’ll turn this around. She’ll exercise some deliverance of her own. But she desperately needs to get away from him; that’s first.
He twists the doorknob, slowly for effect. “His doorknob twist is handsome”, she cringes in pain again, and lowers her head. And her tears rip free from her eyes. He walks in, brings to her a measure of care in his eyes. He raises her face with his finger and says “I think you’ve had enough fancy girl. I’m cutting you loose.” Panic washed over her body and saturated her mind when she moaned “please don’t go, not yet”.
Copyright © Robert Franklin | Year Posted 2022
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