Saturday's Storyteller: "Honestly, it was the worst thing that could have happened to me, but the best thing that could have happened to him."
by Belinda Roddie
Honestly, it was the worst thing that could have happened to me, but the best thing that could have happened to him. Standing in front of the iron-wrought bars together, we watched the links of chainmail curtain rise up to expose the raw and tender skies before us, inviting us to climb up stone stairs to the screening area.
It was certainly much more of a security procedure than a grand royal judicial process.
There were no scales. No records. Nothing. Just the swipe of a wand against our white shirts and pants, no pockets. We didn't have anything on us but the injuries which edges were still drying and exposing tiny red webs of fibers from where we were gashed. He said nothing as we were scanned, patted down, and led gently through the crowded hallway that moved barely an inch a minute. If it even was a minute.
It wasn't until the end of the corridor, while the light was so blinding I had to avert my eyes, that he looked at me with a strange expression of pity that folded in the skin around his eyes and nose. Like wrinkles forming on a man who never got to age.
"I'm," he began, but I didn't let him finish.
"Don't even," I said. "Don't even say you're sorry."
I looked down at his right hand. The fingers were still black from the powder. The hole in his head was smaller, but still open. I pried my fingers into my chest wound and drew out a few more fragments of shrapnel.
Dying. He had wanted to do it so badly.
Being absorbed by the warmth outside, I wondered why he had to drag me down with him.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
Honestly, it was the worst thing that could have happened to me, but the best thing that could have happened to him. Standing in front of the iron-wrought bars together, we watched the links of chainmail curtain rise up to expose the raw and tender skies before us, inviting us to climb up stone stairs to the screening area.
It was certainly much more of a security procedure than a grand royal judicial process.
There were no scales. No records. Nothing. Just the swipe of a wand against our white shirts and pants, no pockets. We didn't have anything on us but the injuries which edges were still drying and exposing tiny red webs of fibers from where we were gashed. He said nothing as we were scanned, patted down, and led gently through the crowded hallway that moved barely an inch a minute. If it even was a minute.
It wasn't until the end of the corridor, while the light was so blinding I had to avert my eyes, that he looked at me with a strange expression of pity that folded in the skin around his eyes and nose. Like wrinkles forming on a man who never got to age.
"I'm," he began, but I didn't let him finish.
"Don't even," I said. "Don't even say you're sorry."
I looked down at his right hand. The fingers were still black from the powder. The hole in his head was smaller, but still open. I pried my fingers into my chest wound and drew out a few more fragments of shrapnel.
Dying. He had wanted to do it so badly.
Being absorbed by the warmth outside, I wondered why he had to drag me down with him.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
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