Friday, September 9, 2011

The Interrogation


He held my face,
Puckering his lips
And instead of a loving kiss,
He blew cigar smoke
Into my face.

I tried to pull away,
Tried to not breathe in
The acrid air tinged
With his breath,
But he held my face still.

Tears rolled down my cheeks,
They came on their own,
A result of my physical pain,
Not my emotional pain.
He smirked.

A yellow smile
Blossomed across the lower half
Of his wrinkled face.
If you didn’t look closely
You would not have noticed
His gold tooth.

I spat in his face,
My phlegm washed
His smile away.
His back slap
Wiped mine away.

He had grown tired
Of our little game.
I was not giving him
The information he wanted.
He turned to retrieve his whip.

My hands remained bound,
But I was free of the chair,
Free of his watchful eyes.
I tucked my legs in
And swung my arms forward.

Seeing my new freedom,
He released his hip,
I dodged it and grabbed it,
Yanking it and pulling him to me.

With two deft movements,
I had the whip around his neck,
Twisting it until
His body stopped thrashing.

I freed my wrists
With his pocket knife.
I collected the money
On the bedside table,
Five Hundred Dollars.

As he slept on the floor
Of the motel room,
I let myself out.

Another pervert satisfied.
I should be more careful,
I nearly killed him that time.

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