STORY: Martyr
Of course, just to spite me, the internet was fixed the next day, just so you can all see how melodramatic I get.
French is offiicially ‘insupportable!’ And I have written a little something which I really need to tighten up, but as it’s the first thing I’ve written in ages I’m going to post it anyway, so there.
Martyr.
You look so beautiful this morning. Your neck, so pure, so white; long and graceful with your hair tumbling out of the tight bindings you tie it up in every day, and for once, just once, you don’t push it back. Long hair – dark, framing your fiery face as your chest rises and falls furiously with the angry, desperate breaths you take. My shirt that you wear, far too big for you, is ripped and torn, and the sleeves are rolled up to the elbows to hide the stains.
Gently, you walk up the stairs barefoot, your slender naked ankles shivering in the harsh winter light. Morning. Far too early for decent human beings to be awake, but you never liked the deceit of the night, and we never claimed to be anything resembling human, did we?
You gasp for air as they place a heavy hand on your shoulder, and shake your head as they ask, mockingly, if you have anything to say. You have nothing to say to them; why would you concede to speak to the very same dogs you’ve worked to destroy? Traitors, you call them, and they call you a little bitch. But to me you have never looked more lovely than you do right now.
Other mornings, I remember, spent with you rolling out of bed; running for our lives, perhaps, or celebrating a victory by crowing from the rooftops. Yet now you will not look at me – those black, burning eyes burn only for your comrades, and am I man enough? Am I hell.
Your lips are trembling.
You refuse to cry as they read out the lies that have lead you here, though the tears flow freely from my own eyes, and a small illicit sob escapes me as they step forward with the tattered scarlet scarf they have ripped from your perfect waist, torn from the flag you left me to make. You stare at me, as though finally noticing me, and in that moment I see all the reasons you could not love me as I loved you, and all the imperfections that made me less than you.
Martyr.
They bandage your eyes so you can’t see the pain, and grab your wrists. They’ve misunderestimated your strength, my beautiful soldier, and I pray you’re going to struggle, but you don’t – you stand still as they tie them up tightly, not even wincing at the rope against your skin. I can see you instinctively checking your boots for your fun with your toes, but of course they are not there.
They stand you on the trap door, and you open your perfect mouth to sing or scream.
Then you panic.
Then you die.
Partially inspired by a bad and vaguely amusing poem I wrote. Thoughts?
Abs x
