Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 53
The first photo prompt of year two is a photo taken by Johannes Plenio, a photographer from Munich, Germany. He has a lovely collection over at a free photo site called Unsplash.
A picture that can represent dark or light. But you know me, I can't resist dark at the best of times. Since spotting this photo I've been dying to write for it. Here's where my head went.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Survival
Cold. So cold. So cold it hurts. But I must keep walking. I must. I’m free. You’re not yet. I am. No, not until you’re home. Shut-up, you’re just the voice in my head, you don’t know. I do know. It’s not over yet. It will be now I’ve got the handcuffs off. That was impressive. It was, in this cold. Frozen locks. To my benefit. Indeed. You’re sure you haven’t been spotted? He glances back. There’s no one behind me. You don’t know that. There’s no footprints in the snow. It means nothing. You know how good she is at leaving no marks. He rubs his wrists remembering. You were foolish. Was not. You should never have believed her story about why she wanted to go to the cabin. She loves me. Does not. She felt badly about how she’s been. You still believe that? I want to. Still? He glances behind him again. If you go home she’ll be there. She won’t. She won’t believe I got free, she’ll think I’ve died on the run. Don’t you think she’ll check? I have nowhere else to go. And she knows that. You need to go to someone else. Who would believe me? They only have to look at you to believe you. They won’t believe it’s her. You think they don’t know? How could they? Remember how Wayne looked at you? He believed my story. No he didn’t. He was just saving you embarrassment. He knows I box. Those bruises weren’t from boxing and he knows it. He won’t want anything to do with me. He’ll think I’m weak and pathetic. You don’t know that. He’ll laugh at me. He won’t. How do you tell someone you’ve been held prisoner, for what days? Weeks. You think it’s weeks? I do. Although it’s hard to tell. I passed out so many times. He stumbles. I can’t feel my feet. Keep walking. They’re numb. Keep going. It’s not far now. See there’s a house over there. He makes out a building ahead. A farmhouse. There’s lights on in the windows. What will I say? The truth. I don’t know if I can. You have to. Get them to call the police. Maybe I should just see if there’s an outhouse or barn or something to hide in. You need to speak to someone, Steve. You need to tell someone. He lets out a sob. You can do it. You have to. What will they think of me? They will help you. I’m bleeding. It will have stopped by now. But they will see. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you survive. I need to survive. You do. I need to stop her. You do. He stands at the door, jittering. When the door opens he falls through the entrance onto the floor sobbing. He hears gasps, ‘He’s naked. So much blood.’ Someone calls to someone else. Hands on him. Blankets round him. Warmth. Water on his lips. Voices around him, three or four: ‘What shall we do?’ ‘I’ve called an ambulance.’ ‘Where did he come from?’ ‘Out of the field on the right, there’s a blood trail.’ Sirens. He’s lifted up onto a gurney. More gasps. “Who did this to you, son?” A soft, gentle voice. “She did.” “Who?” “My wife.”
A picture that can represent dark or light. But you know me, I can't resist dark at the best of times. Since spotting this photo I've been dying to write for it. Here's where my head went.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Survival
Cold. So cold. So cold it hurts. But I must keep walking. I must. I’m free. You’re not yet. I am. No, not until you’re home. Shut-up, you’re just the voice in my head, you don’t know. I do know. It’s not over yet. It will be now I’ve got the handcuffs off. That was impressive. It was, in this cold. Frozen locks. To my benefit. Indeed. You’re sure you haven’t been spotted? He glances back. There’s no one behind me. You don’t know that. There’s no footprints in the snow. It means nothing. You know how good she is at leaving no marks. He rubs his wrists remembering. You were foolish. Was not. You should never have believed her story about why she wanted to go to the cabin. She loves me. Does not. She felt badly about how she’s been. You still believe that? I want to. Still? He glances behind him again. If you go home she’ll be there. She won’t. She won’t believe I got free, she’ll think I’ve died on the run. Don’t you think she’ll check? I have nowhere else to go. And she knows that. You need to go to someone else. Who would believe me? They only have to look at you to believe you. They won’t believe it’s her. You think they don’t know? How could they? Remember how Wayne looked at you? He believed my story. No he didn’t. He was just saving you embarrassment. He knows I box. Those bruises weren’t from boxing and he knows it. He won’t want anything to do with me. He’ll think I’m weak and pathetic. You don’t know that. He’ll laugh at me. He won’t. How do you tell someone you’ve been held prisoner, for what days? Weeks. You think it’s weeks? I do. Although it’s hard to tell. I passed out so many times. He stumbles. I can’t feel my feet. Keep walking. They’re numb. Keep going. It’s not far now. See there’s a house over there. He makes out a building ahead. A farmhouse. There’s lights on in the windows. What will I say? The truth. I don’t know if I can. You have to. Get them to call the police. Maybe I should just see if there’s an outhouse or barn or something to hide in. You need to speak to someone, Steve. You need to tell someone. He lets out a sob. You can do it. You have to. What will they think of me? They will help you. I’m bleeding. It will have stopped by now. But they will see. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you survive. I need to survive. You do. I need to stop her. You do. He stands at the door, jittering. When the door opens he falls through the entrance onto the floor sobbing. He hears gasps, ‘He’s naked. So much blood.’ Someone calls to someone else. Hands on him. Blankets round him. Warmth. Water on his lips. Voices around him, three or four: ‘What shall we do?’ ‘I’ve called an ambulance.’ ‘Where did he come from?’ ‘Out of the field on the right, there’s a blood trail.’ Sirens. He’s lifted up onto a gurney. More gasps. “Who did this to you, son?” A soft, gentle voice. “She did.” “Who?” “My wife.”
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