Emma sat at the table, a plate of fear in front of her and a glass of worry in her hand.
She stared at the man across from her, shuddering as his eyes ghosted over hers as if she didn’t exist. “Please,” he said silkily, that voice of his running smoothly like a melted stream of dark chocolate. The thought made her hungry, and her eyes followed his gesturing hand to the plate in front of her. Steam coiled up to meet her nose, and she tasted bile in her mouth at the smell. She put down the glass.
“Please,” he repeated, a little more insistently, eyes like twin coals smouldering at the edges. She knew those eyes, knew the holes they could burn in her paper heart, so she reached tentative fingers towards the silver.
He smiled as her left hand closed around the fork and her right around the knife.
It was not a pleasant smile. He couldn’t, she knew, smile pleasantly. He had tried, too long ago for her to remember, and too recently for him to forget, but he had failed as miserably as she was failing at resisting him.
Perhaps, she wondered, he hungered for pain as much as she hungered for food, and it made it more difficult for either of them to do what they wanted to?
She felt his gaze on her and carefully cut a slice.
It had been like that the last time, except she had been watching him and he had been eating, and what was on the plate had been infused with saffron rather than the most dangerous kind of magic.
“Emma,” he remonstrated, chunks of butter melting into his voice, making it smoother, richer as she listened, “we don’t have all day.”
She’d said that to him, she remembered, except he didn’t glance back to his bedroom as she had, didn’t appear in any way impatient. He was replaying everything almost exactly, watching for even the slightest reaction.
I won’t give you that, she thought fiercely as she brought the fork to her mouth, I won’t make this worth anything.
His musician’s fingers, magician’s fingers gripped the edge of the table, and his eyes darted from fork to mouth, mouth to fork, not wanting to miss the instant when her tongue brushed it and her senses exploded.
Emma remembered watching him like that, before he’d stopped being able to smile pleasantly.
At the last second, she dropped the fork with a clatter.
“You’ll break the china,” he murmured, voice as soft and thick as velvet.
She’d said that to him, more loudly, with more anger in her voice, and he had replied, “At least it’s not your heart.”
Saul had come from the back then, and pinned his arms behind his back, and made him promise to leave peaceably.
Emma remembered the look in his burning-ember eyes.
There was nothing of that look now, only an insistent concern. “You’re hungry, Emma. You should eat. Trust me, this is just what you need.”
Her memory spun forward. “Trust me,” she had said, pushing his hands away, “this is just what you need,” and he had tried to smile as Saul had laid an arm around her waist and gently led her away.
“It’s getting cold,” he pressed, that silken voice wrapping around her senses, distorting reality. The worry in the pit of her stomach was digesting. It was getting cold, she reasoned, and picked up the fork again.
The instant it touched her tongue, she reached out her arms to push herself away from the table, but the chair was chained to the floor and she was somehow held to the chair, and his eyes were burning, now, burning into her as his fingers tapped on the edge of the table in anticipation.
She gulped down the mouthful and he gestured to the plate. “Surely you’re not finished.”
He was as sarcastic as she had been when he had tried to show her what a fool she’d been. Her mouth was parched and her fingers trembled as she lifted the glass to her lips and worry washed over her tongue, numbing it.
“I’ll leave you,” he purred, magic coiling around his fingertips as he pushed himself from the table, “to think. You mustn’t,” he continued, unpleasant smile just touching his lips, “think that I will change my mind about any of this, Emma.”
He reached the door and swung it open with a thought as she felt the fear and worry gnawing away at her stomach lining and remembered that she had told him that she wouldn’t change her mind, either.
Emma sat at the table, a plate of fear in front of her and a glass of worry in her hand, as David locked the door behind him and left her alone.
3 comments:
I have to say...I was a tiny bit confused...
"“Please,” he repeated, a little more insistently, eyes like twin coals smouldering at the edges. She knew those eyes, knew the holes they could burn in her paper heart, so she reached tentative fingers towards the silver."
Beautifully written. I have to say that doing without the opening 2 lines, I would have been more into the story from the get go. But I guess it's justified in its repetition.
I like the feel of torture of this. It's sadistic. Really sadistic. Although, I have to admit, I'm not entirely sure what's going on, this definitely intrigued me.
I'm not sure what I think about this one. I like it but at the same time...I felt a bit too disoriented to enjoy it completely. I liked the idea of the food linked with their twisted relationship and how symbolic it was. But I wasn't sure how much of this piece was symbolism and how much of it should be taken literally. The flashbacks of her remembering the reverse situation also added to the disorientation of it all....sigh. I like this, but I wish I had some sort of grounding while reading it. And maybe this is just getting down to the nitty gritty details, but the fact that Emma had a name was a bit odd... Perhaps just because I'm so used to characters being unnamed on Heart Rape posts? I don't know. It just seemed a bit too specific for such an abstract piece.
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