drabblegrrl

She laughed (or was it a cackle?) as she pulled the scissors (or was it a knife?) out of the drawer. She took his hand and carefully, delicately, gently sliced it off. She could hear his cries (or were they screams?), could see the pain (or was it fear?) in his eyes, but that didn’t stop her.

She took her scissors (her knife?) and gleefully cut away at him – removing his other hand, his feet, his arms, his legs. His cries (his screams?) deepened into panic, faded into silence. She continued excising (or was it butchering?) until he was entirely in pieces. She looked at what remained, staring into her own face, mirroring her own smile.

She swept the floor, removing the shreds of photograph (the body?), eliminating all evidence of what had transpired.

She reframed the photo, herself alone.

She spun in the firelight, hair and skirts streaming out in a spiral circle around her. Entrancing those watching her, knowing their eyes held her tightly, enjoying the power she had. Faster and faster she spun, weaving in and out of the crowd. Dangerously close to the fire, dangerously far from the camp – she twirled, danced, stepped.

After a time, the music stilled, quieted. She, too, stilled. The air froze and her breath made little clouds with each exhale.

A few moments passed. The men stood and one by one departed until only he remained. He looked up from the flames, catching her eye.

She knew he was hers. He knew he was claimed. She reached out and took his hand, meeting no resistance, and he followed her silently. A tear rolled down his cheek as he thought of what he was sacrificing tonight, but he made no effort to escape. She turned to face him and her ruby lips brushed the tear away. She whispered, soft sweet words, and he paled. They continued, walking away from the fire, into the dark night.