Torture
by Kathy A.
Fisher
"I hate
you!" I spat, as I squirmed in agony.
"I hear
that a lot," the Marquis de Sade with hair
gel chuckled.
"Does
this hurt?" he asked, secure in the
knowledge that it did.
I screamed,
"Yes, you sadistic son-of-a-bitch! It
hurts! Are you happy now?"
"I'll
only be happy when you're happy, Kat. How
does this feel?"
I was pinned
to the table by my own sick willingness to endure
pain. I wouldn't give the jerk the satisfaction
of letting him know how much I suffered.
Through
clenched teeth, I replied, "It feels
wonderful. I'm in a state of complete bliss.
Are we finished?"
He made that
condescending tsking sound. "Now, Kat.
You knew what you were getting into when you came
here. Didn't you?"
I choked back
a sob. "I thought I did. I really, truly
thought I did. But I think I've had enough."
"Well, if
you only think you've had enough, you can
probably take some more. Tell me when the edge is
off."
I howled,
"Are you using a knife now?"
My face was
buried in leather and I couldn't see, but I was
sure of it. He was actually using a knife. I hadn't
bargained for this.
He sounded
sympathetic as he said, "No, Kat. I'm
just using my thumb."
In his sick
world, thumb must be a euphemism for knife.
I tried to go
to my happy place. Trouble was, I didn't have a
happy place. If I did, it would have
to be a million miles from here. Maybe even light
years away from pain so excruciating, if the fate
of the country depended on my silence, I'd be
singing like I was auditioning for American Idol.
My doctor
removed his thumb from my heel and said, "I
know you don't believe me, but a few more
treatments and your plantar fasciitis should be
gone."
I sat up,
begrudgingly thanked him, and surreptitiously
looked around for the knife.
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