thaliademuse
She laid the shirt on the bed, straightening out the hem at the bottom. She frowned at the bloodstain that marred the blue and green paisley pattern over the left breast pocket. It would be hard to explain this one to her dry cleaners.
Their voices shifted upward, louder, as Hadi listened in. He breathed with a painful quietness as he strained to make out words from the uncommon language, words he hardly knew.
"Why should I follow her?", Cathy wondered, peering around the corner at the rapidly retreating figure. She — the rebel, the crook, the shameless pirate — would only lead her into ruin. But Cathy didn't hesitate a moment longer and rushed after her, breathless with adrenaline.
She peered around the corner and saw her friend. She couldn't quite believe what she was seeing: her friend, acting very much like someone other than her friend. To say the very least, it was disturbing.
He fought, and he snarled, and he screamed at them. He wrenched at the bonds holding him to the ground and scrabbled for anything to loosen them and find freedom. He glared at them with a fiery rage in his eyes, and dared them to spit on him in disgust.
Where does the ground tremble? Where do the trees shake, as if in fright? Where does man cower below the skies? Where do the very elements shout and clash, then calm, as if gentled by a mighty hand?
They call it the boa and it doesn't kill with venom. It kills with its embrace.
Poke.
Poke.
Pokety-poke.
Poke, poke, poke.
Nope, I think it's dead.