One Thousand Broken Fingers

The wind whispers past my ear, laughing softly. All I can do is gaze at my snapped and twisted fingers.

“Now, shall we do it again?”

“No,” I groan.

“Really? It might not hurt as much. Maybe you won’t be able to feel it anymore.”

Her voice, so beautiful, so soft, taunts me. It’s hard not to scream, to beg to die. But my stubborn pride refuses.

“No? Well. It seems I’m out of time. Goodbye for now.”

Her great cape of ice swirls around her as she turns.

“Oh,” she says, looking over her white shoulder. “Always a pleasure.”

I go from helplessness to anger, a great red, roiling miasmic cloud, filling my stomach, my chest, my arms. I scream, because there is nothing else I can do, rooted to the riverbank. Several birds fly upwards, squawking in alarm.

Because I am helpless, because my very nature keeps me anchored to the side of this muddy riverbed, I stab at the sky. With my one thousand broken fingers.

Freya