Backbone
401 Words
"It's an impossibility." She repeats, swinging her cigarette. She shakes her head at me, then stubs out the cigarette angrily after one more frantic puff.
"You don't understand. My parents spent my life trying to beat the stubbornness out of me. Squash it down, destroy it. I spent my childhood in fear of what I'd lose next, when the next beating would be, of being bullied, smacked, hit, punished. I had so many things taken away! Oh my god!" She squeezes her head between her fingers. 'I suddenly understand why they never knew what I liked! I stopped telling them so they couldn't destroy it when they tried to make a point about the fact that I wasn't allowed to have boundaries! My f*****g parents were supposed to be Gods!" At this point, I'm wondering how much of her rambling is delusional.
"Now look at me! Cast down to the mortal plane! Told to figure it out! All because I couldn't conform, couldn't behave!" She gets up from the chair and begins to pace.
"If only I'd had enough backbone to fight back sooner! But what would that have done? I still would have ended up here!" I try to readjust my position in my chair discretely. I don't want to interrupt her, but the movement catches her eye nonetheless.
"And then there's you! You probably don't believe a word I'm saying!" She snaps. I blink slowly.
"I believe that you believe it." I answer her blandly. She snorts.
"You probably tell that to all the psychos. Well, doesn't matter, you were brought here for a reason. I needed a sacrifice to get the attention of dear ole dad. Sorry hung, I'll be needing your blood now." Immediately, I yank against the ties binding me to the chair in this psycho's living room. I regret accepting the invite for a one night stand. I wish I had more time to do.. anything. I don't get much further in my thoughts. The crazy b***h only takes a few steps before pulling a knife from thin air. She slices my throat, and as the blood floats up in front of my eyes and flattens to form a solid, still sheet hovering between us, my last thoughts race to form in my mind.
Maybe she wasn't so crazy after all.
.
.
.
Damn, she needs a therapist.
- Writer
