Trapped

(Photo: Molly Blackbird on Unsplash)

They say she gets to choose to be obedient, or face the consequences.

They say she gets to choose to accept her fault, or be blamed anyway.

She gets to chew on what she’d done. Even if it was done to her. It is still somehow her doing. Her consequence. Her crime. Her punishment.

She cradles what is left of her. Tucks it away. She will not be allowed to be. Or flee. Or seek a help. Or have a voice. Or make a choice. Not really.

It does not matter what she needs. It never did.

Her body just a vehicle for others’ machinations. An incubator for others’ agendas.

The growing despair is meant to put her in her place. Clip her wings. Keep her there.

She never mattered. No matter what words they pretended to say.

She gets to choose what they say she must do. Any other path is deemed a sin. A wrong she does.

She has no right to choose. They choose for her.

And if she dares seek freedom for herself, dares to try and claim back what is left of her body, she’ll be, to them, a killer.

For Linda’s SoCS prompt of chews/choose

Photo: #CCC48

She crouched and tried to still her heart and limbs so the water would not give her away in wavelets or ripples.

Her teeth chattered. She wasn’t dressed for wet and the day’s sun had little warmth, none of which reached the shaded culvert.

She strained to listen.

She did all she could think of to hide her steps, but she wasn’t likely to escape the dogs. If they brought them. Oh pray please, please, that they did not. Not the dogs.

Her breath hitched and she bit down on her lip to try and swallow the sob that rode on it. The metal taste of blood filled her mouth. She heard barking. Surely the dogs could smell it. And her fear.

She closed her eyes and prayed to become stone.

She would not feel their chains, the bites, the clubs, their touch, their lashes, if she were a stone.

For the Crimson Creative Challenge