This is my entry for the inkwell challenge this week.
I must admit, I had no idea how to go about this one. I couldn't find a way to include an animal or a plant in my story but when I started writing, the story took a different turn, and I decided, why not explore the different meanings of the prompt and find my balance.
The word is thorn.
Take a look.
It was almost ten in the morning. She stood by the window of her small room overlooking the equally small garden. She could smell the flowers. Though they hadn't been tended in a long time, the fragrance was still very strong. Looking after them used to be her mother's job. She wiped the single tear that slipped down her cheek. Her crying days were over. She had promised herself.
Today was supposed to be a happy day, for her. While the household was in mourning, she felt nothing. They had rejoiced eight months ago when her mother was lowered into the ground. She had stood by her grave each night for three weeks, wishing she could see her one more time. She had a lot of questions. She still did. But that was all in the past now. Today marked the beginning of her new life.
The door opened, like it always did, without warning. She had learned to ignore. And now, like the other times, she didn't turn.
“It's time”, a voice said.
The car was waiting when she stepped out. A pamphlet was handed to her without a word. She knew what was expected of her. She was the brain after all. They used her when it served their purpose. She sat quietly and closed her eyes, mentally reciting the content. The words were hers. She had written them two days ago, just the way they wanted.
The cemetery was eerily quiet when they got there. A few friends were waiting. She watched the men bring down the coffin. She couldn't stop staring at it. She wanted to scream at the corpse inside. She used to call him uncle, laughing while he carried her up, tickling her. But that ended the day she walked in on him standing over her mother. He had his belt in his hands, her mother curled into a ball on the ground, sobbing. She wouldn't speak of it –her mother, not even on her death bed. But she understood what happened perfectly. She wasn't a child anymore.
A hand pressing in on her shoulder brought her out of her reverie. She winced inwardly. The physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional turmoil. They could torture her all they wanted. She didn't mind, not when she knew how to get what she wanted.
She walked slowly up the stage. The priest was already there. There was sadness in his eyes, for her she was sure. If only he knew. She opened the pamphlet and began to read, her voice rising and falling in rhythm. She couldn't feel the words on her tongue, but she knew the congregation could. The calmness and the facial expressions gave everything away.
He had come at her the way he came at her mother, and he had payed with his life. She knew what they wanted. She has always suspected but it became clear after her mother's death. The wealth of her father was more important to them than the love and bond of family. It didn't help that she was female.
She would continue to do what was expected of her. The small bottle was heavy in her pocket as she walked back to the car. She cursed him and the poison rotting inside of him. One down, six to go. One day she would grieve. Now, she had work to do, and she wouldn't stop. Not until she had uprooted the pointed spine which had become a sharp pain in her soul.
This is an intense story, @chinyerevivian. The main character has quite the cause for revenge. I wish I knew what she read in the service. I couldn't quite tell if she said kind words about the uncle, or if she carefully chose her words to hint about his abusiveness. And who are the other six? Maybe you will need to write the sequel. :-)
Maybe she did say kind words. They watch her every move after all. She preferred being silent while she executed her plans.
A sequel isn't a bad idea.
Thanks for visiting.