Poisoned

Poisoned - Ch. 3 [Poisoned]

[Re-cap:]

“It’s a life, isn’t it?” I asked. “I’ll take it.”

          Chapter 3: Poisoned

          “Excellent,” the man said briskly, clapping his hands together twice. My body was shaking like a leaf from the relief and leftover adrenaline.

          I heard a rustling behind the man and suddenly the curtains behind him parted, and a child walked out. Except it wasn’t a child.

          It was a man, disfigured and stooped, with the face of a man and a child’s body. My eyes widened, but otherwise I didn’t say anything.

          I looked away from the man-child at the man sitting behind the desk, and realized he had been looking at me. He seemed to approve of my reaction.

          “This is Birkita, my right-hand man,” he announced, “But he prefers Birk, don’t you?”

          Birk nodded vigorously, turning to look at me. My breath caught in my throat when our eyes met; his were the kindest I’d seen in a long time. There was no judgment in them, like I’d come to expect from others. Instead, he smiled at me, transforming his face, as it blossomed into radiance.

          I smiled back hesitantly; the muscles had forgotten what it was like to smile – I hadn’t had any reason to for awhile. And it didn’t seem like I should smile, especially in anyone’s presence, because in their eyes I was a criminal, and who was I to enjoy life?

          But I knew somehow that I could smile when I was with Birk, though it was a fleeting one, because my eyes immediately flashed to the man, fearfully watching to see if it angered him to see me smile.

          He wasn’t looking at me, but had instead gotten up and was pouring something into goblets, his back to me. He returned, offering me a glass. I looked at him in disbelief.

          “Drink,” he ordered, “You look parched, as though you’ve been living in a desert, minus the sun.”

          I needed no other prompt; hastily, I gulped down the liquid, not caring what it was, coughing and ignoring my scratchy throat, revelling in the way my throat absorbed the liquid. The man lazily took a single sip in the time that it had taken me to consume my entire glass.

          Panting, I sat there, looking at him, feeling fresh, invigorated, and yes, hopeful.

          The man put his glass down and leaned forward, hands resting on his desk and his dark eyes boring into mine.

          “Well?” he asked.

          “Thank you, it was wonderful,” I couldn’t help but smile.

          The man’s expression was unreadable as he leaned back. “Good,” was all he said.

          And suddenly, it was like the liquid had broken my dam of questions, and words poured out of my mouth before I could stop them.

          “Sir, how long have I been locked up for?” I asked breathlessly.

          He looked at me. “Fifteen months.”

          I stared at him in dismay. My eighteenth birthday had come and gone, last year’s harvest had long been collected, and this year’s was already planted. What had happened for the past year? For me, it was one huge hole of darkness and misery, memories to be forgotten, nightmares to be endured. But to others, what had it meant? Someone dying, someone being born, two lovers married, a war tearing hearts apart?