Thursday, October 15, 2015


by J. O'Shields II

The glass of the picture window was cold against her bare flesh but she could do nothing to alter the fact.  The graceless beast grunting behind her cared not if she experienced discomfort and thought her erect nipples, on the rare occasion that he had bothered to painfully grope at her breasts, were a sign of her pleasure. But that could not be when she was so distant from the act and the scene of this repetitive crime against passion.   

Why he insisted on having her in this fashion so often was no mystery.  She knew that somewhere beyond the shadows -given birth by neck high snow drifts- another mans heart fell in shards, unable to turn away from the silhouettes that simultaneously provided him with a living death and the will to continue to exist.  In fact, there was little to prevent any of the hired hands from watching the semi-voluntary tragedy though she knew from the tipped hats and sad-eyed smiles during daylight encounters in the fields and surrounding property that none of them would seek pleasure in her body being twisted and bent to the will of the monster which held each of their lives, as it were, in his sweaty, heavy hand.

Regardless of her situation, she was comforted knowing he would soon be done with her body and she would be dismissed to return to the converted loft she was allowed as chambers. She would carry herself regally when that time came.  Never would she let her chin dip.  It was not her way and she reminded herself moment by moment of the day she overheard Yuri uttering his thanks to the god of his faith for her".  Those words made her heart swell, at times too much it seemed.  For it was the memory of his voice which threatened to shatter the remnants of that weariest of muscles.

When Yuri woke, the sun was only beginning to bathe his toes which always seemed to escape from the edge of the meager bedding stable hands were afforded.  Though instinct dictated that he could be shivering from the protrusion, he felt the suns warmth as if the filthy, patchwork glass had magnified it's intensity and folded it before magnifying it once more.  It was always so when he woke.  In each day he saw the potential for a better tomorrow though by what means he was never at liberty to discern. 

It was only a piece of him that remained and he dare not question it lest it flee from beneath his interrogating eye and never return.  That would not do.  It was all that remained of the man he had been in his other life and was necessary to prevent becoming the man he feared might better suit this new way.  Should he some day divine a means of escape from this servitude for himself and Nora, he would insist on having his humanity in tact.  What good is a life if you've forgotten how to live in the smallest moments after all?

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