He was a pirate in every sense of the word. He came into her world while she slept and stole her away from safety. He was a literal thief in the night, stealing her virtue and then her mind. He twisted her into whatever amused him most. She followed blindly, depending on him to lead. She had not asked for his world but that was what she got. In time, she learned to tolerate his abuses in quiet servitude.
She lived an unfamiliar terror, never knowing what anguish he would inflict next, only knowing that he would not fail to. They had battled for her life, and for her will to live. She suffered seven years of soul crushing degradation, beating her black and blue, forcing her to bend and then forcing her to her knees, ignoring tears and screams. He had beaten her unconscious and nearly into her grave.
Finally, she freed her hands as he stumbled towards her. In a flash of fatalistic joy, she bolted, running for the gangplank, and flung her body overboard. She slipped beneath midnight waves, holding her breath with lungs near to bursting. Hiding in the breakers, silent for hours, she watched the search party relent and the ship sail away.
She washed onto shore beaten, bloody and scarred. As she laid her head on cool, damp sand and closed her eyes, she whispered, “Not broken,” and passed out, sure in the knowledge that she would die fighting before letting him break her.
© March 19, 2018 at 4:09 AM
Tags: #microliterature #microfiction #flash #fiction #shortstory #pirate #tales #heroine #enduring #spirit #message to a #tormentor #shortstuffsunday #amwriting
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Brindle was all dime store cosmetic allure and overlong eyelashes dwarfing her face, attractive only to certain types of men from the wrong side of the tracks.
Everyone said she was no good, that she would be her own ruination.
She did business on her back, while dreaming of spreading her wings and broadening horizons, but she owed her soul to heroin. She had to have the drug to blur the faces and perversions that were her survival.
But she dreamed of better things, a better life teeming with love, until she was three months gone and her fate was sealed.
They said she had dried out and gotten her act together; she bore a girl child in a rehabilitation center, still on the straight and narrow, and returned to her home plus one.
But wagging tongues and cold stares finally broke her. Paramedics found her with a needle in her arm.
Her daughter attended the solitary service, watching alone, as they lowered the casket into the earth.
Everyone said she had grown quite beautiful in her late teen years, and spoke in hushed tones of what a shame it was that she had inherited Brindle’s poverty.
She was all dime store cosmetic allure and overlong eyelashes dwarfing her face, attractive only to certain types of men from the wrong side of the tracks.
©March 19, 2018 at 12:17 AM
#shortstuffsunday #SundayShorts #flashfiction #shortstory #psychological #fiction #human #condition #reputations #prostitution #harlots #history #repeats
Winning the Battle – Losing the War
She stood in the vessel, still in her pajamas, hearing the door tap staccato annoyance. She took stock of post-war casualties.
Venomous words, hurled like grenades, dripped from the air in corpuscle chunks, quivering in vast empty spaces between them, awaiting an overdue death at her feet.
My Fathoms (Word Prompts which must be incorporated): vessel, pajamas, tap.
Tags: #Zathom #story #fight #fiction #microliterature #microfiction