The Punk
The girl shivered and turned in her sleep, sweat pricked the skin of her pale forehead, she mummbled and turned as if on fire as if in fever. The dream was back huanting her, one of those real dreams that tugged at her waking mind from the recesses where she hide it.
The dream involved fire, a large fire of flicking flames and a circle of faces, dark hair and tanned skin, a ring of faces learing at her. The fire was large and licked at the wood. The pyre was for her, becuase of the voices in her head, becuase of what she had done. From hero to witch in the blink of an eye. The heat pounded into her head – the throb of pain pulsing within.
It should have ended there, it almost had, but it hadn’t and after her feet had healed, after the monks had helped her and hidden her, after the whole death had been churned over and whiped from the publics eye she had walked out of there. Walked away from another chapter of her life.
She had crossed the channel and time had passed.
She awoke to a dusty stable floor, in itchy woollen clothing, corse and scratchy.
She awoke on linen sheets, in a room smelling of new paint and ozone.
Memories fused together – lifetimes passed the Punk was awake.
She blinked and looked at the clock, 5 in the morning, she turned and drifted into sleep once more.
Posted: Thursday, February 9th, 2012 @ 10:12 pm
Categories: Flash Fiction, The Punks World.
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