Bite Size Stories

Surrender to the Darkness

Note: This story incorporates several weekend write-in prompts, as I once again play catch up!

*** Weekend Write-In's for 30 Aug 2019 *** - "allow" *** 6 Sep 2019 *** - "land" - *** 13 Sep 2019 *** - "odd" - *** 20 Sep 2019 *** - "day": In 500 words, tell what happens when the day matters

EMBRACE THE PAIN

Croatia. 1994.

'It is allowed?'

'My friend, everything is allowed here. Do you see anything that you like?'

'I like young, but fully formed.'

'This way. We have many girls, 16 or 17 years old.'

'What is in here ... these two?'

'Ah, they are not yet ready my friend. First we break their spirits, then the merchandise becomes available, when they are ... pliable.'

'When?'

'Ah, you like! A week perhaps. These items are speciality. American girls! Very wholesome, worth the wait. Expensive.'

'I can come back. I like wholesome, but ...'

'Yes, my friend?'

The customer laughs. 'Maybe a discount for false advertising. How wholesome can they be with their veins full of that, and ... a wash maybe?'

The supplier laughs. 'All part of the process, my friend. Once they are ready, we take out the tubes, get them under a hot shower, make up, some lingerie perhaps...'

***

The dark haired girl writhes on the filthy mattress; next to her the blonde girl lets out a small moan. They may well be dimly aware of the two men in the doorway but reality blurs, at odds with the feverish images that assail their senses. Or one of them ... the blonde girl mercifully loses consciousness, too tired to fight anymore.

But the dark haired girl dreams. She sees a dark haired man, silhouetted in the sun. She can barely make out his face but she knows he is smiling at her and she feels love and protection. She is seven years old and he's promised to be back for her 8th birthday. He calls her sweetheart and leans to kiss her forehead, blocking out the sun in the doorway, for a brief moment.

Daddy.

Mom. 'I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.'

Pain. Devastation. Tears well up on her mother's cheeks. She's hurt her and is glad.

'Daddy would have let me!'

More tears from her mother. Many many conversations, over the course of a decade. The arguments, the tears, the hurt blurs into one big mass of memory. She still sees him in the doorway, with the sun blazing as he turns to go.

Daddy is dead. He's not coming back. She's eight and she cries as the man grips mommy's shoulder's as she crumples to the ground. Around her, the cake lies squashed in the sunlight, her friends have been sent home.

Be strong for Mommy.

He was the best man I knew.

Remember your dad and be proud, young lady.

Daddy helped people.

Daddy died a hero.

Daddy went away.

He's not coming back.

She should have stopped him. Mommy could have stopped him.

It's her fault Daddy's gone.