A Life Of Torture (Short Story -- Fiction)

clevercreator (57)in #story • 7 years ago (edited)

A Life Of Torture

By Diamond Sutherland

STEEMIT EDITION

PUBLISHED BY

Diamond Sutherland on Steemit

My life for a cup of coffee minus the knife that is being jabbed through my foot. I would scream, but this is the way my day has began for years. Well, it is not always a knife to the foot, but the torture begins the moment I open my eyes.

I try to keep my eyes closed for as long as possible, but the crowd is already gearing up to bring on today's asult. The stiffness from yesterday's torture forces me to slowly move my limbs as I hope to be mobile before they strike today.

When my eyes do open, I am on the trek for that first cup of coffee, but again, there is that knife to the foot. I picture the crowd is a drama queen just wanting to make their precense known.

Frac that hurts, but again I will not give them the satisfaction of stopping just because my foot feels like it could fall off at any moment. Coffee needs to be made...I need a smell that grounds me.

I lay my head down on the counter because there is a new bag of coffee. Unopened. The crowd waits patiently. Will I or won't I try to open it, with the knife already causing my foot to throb?

Coffee, I need coffee, so I reach for the bag. Hundreds of electrified needles hit my hands -- I roll my eyes. Well, played, I mumbled. But guess what? I really want coffee.

It takes me ten minutes to open the bag. However, the feeling of triump, while my hands are coursing with pain, is immense and deserving of an extra fluffy big hunkin' doughnut -- to go with this coffee that I am making because I want coffee.

Over the course of the next couple of hours, there will be little introductions of other pokes and prods to make sure my focus stays away, but oh man, the coffee with milk and sugar that I can stay focused on. And at times, the crowd gets a little cranky.

Such as now...such drama queens. I decided to get some work down, but no, let's filet the left thigh all the way down to the bone. As I type, I know they just want to get under my skin, but I am strong -- their game is not new. Two and half decades -- filet away.

I get a couple more pieces of work organized, but the crowd is not happy. No. They bust out the big boys because they have a bone to pick with me. Sighing, I acknowledge their plan and quietly put my work away.

Maybe some yoga? It always help me calm down. Except, I know they are prepping the drill. I refuse to acknowledge them and move through some poses. Until, the drill strikes the bone.

My motion stops. They made it to the marrow and have decided to play in the liquid of life. I would call truce, but that does no good, they are on a roll now and it is all down hill.

A life of time passes. I groan. Nope -- four hours. Just four frac'n hours. In that time, I ate a pizza and drank two quarts of tea. While I am not a puddle of tears on the floor, sometimes I wish the crowd would get sick of torturing me.

One day off. Just one. Sure sometimes, the crowd looses it royal status and they only remember to burn me or decide to keep me nausous so I can't eat with a smidge of pain in a limb or two, but there is never a day where they completely say, "Hey, let's just have her rest today."

Things like the Geneva Convention and Rules of War really don't apply. The crowd is here for some sick perverse reason and it never stops. Even as I get ready to get some more work done, they rear up and stick sword through my kidneys. Owwwww. Is that neccesary?

One would think at some point the crowd would realize that I am never giving up. I can be tortured every day for the rest of my life AND I will stand my ground. I am not going to lie, it would be great if I could bribe them to leave or convince them I gave them everything...

But alas, this is not my fate. The crowd and I will dance this dance until my spirit goes to the beyond, but until that day, I will take every needle, knife, scaple, flame, sword, and more that comes my way.

Bedtime comes and none of their drama has caused me to stop smiling. As I crawl into bed, sore and exhausted, I remind myself that it could always be worse. While sleep goes by quickly, I take pleasure in knowing that the crowd has seldom been able to deprive me of my sleep.