Inspired by how I'm feeling today...
This week's prompt is: "Her head throbbed with excruciating pain ..."
(But don't worry about me. Really, it's a dull, throbbing ache - but I can be dramatic about pain.)
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My Response:
Pain.
Sara hadn't even opened her eyes yet, but her whole body registered pain. There was a sharp something digging into her ribs behind her, where her weight rested. Her left arm felt as if it were being crushed in a vice. Her legs, awkwardly bent above her, were cramping. Most of all, her head throbbed with excruciating pain.
Sara willed her eyes to open, just a slit, but then snapped them shut again. The blinding light seared into her brain, and it was a few minutes again before she could will herself to try again. While she waited, she tried to remember.
They'd been in the short-range interspatial shuttle her dad had rented to go visit her grandparents on a dark little frontier planet near Procyon. It was a large vessel, but with twelve siblings scurring around, up and down ladders and through portholes, it didn't seem so large. As the oldest, Sara was supposed to help keep order, but the little ones, in their excitement, weren't listening to her any better than they were to their mother, and Sara had taken the brunt of Mama's anger.
Sara eased her lids open. Bright light streamed in through a wide crack in the side of the vessel. They'd crashed. Sara couldn't remember how or why, but she knew the odds of crashing on an ocean planet were a million to one. Worse, actually, but the point was, if you crashed in space, you were dead.
Except, Sara wasn't dead ... even if the throb of her heart echoing in her head made her wish she was.
Her head throbbed with excruciating pain.
ReplyDeletePerversely, even as she squeezed her eyes shut and moaned, Ilaria, who readily claimed the title of most obsessive-compulsive scholar of ancient tongues in the universe, couldn’t help but dissect the word “excruciating.” The Latin root, “cruciare,” meant to cause grief; to torment…Ilaria grew dizzy as a slight shake of her head shot jagged pain, like lightning, through her head. The word also meant “to torture.”
“Crucio!” the Death Eaters would shout, pointing their twisted wands at poor Harry and his friends, and the good little witches and wizards would writhe in agony. Clever, clever J.K. and her so-called children’s books…brilliant! Ilaria had loved Ms. Rowling from the moment she’d realized how much knowledge of dead languages the woman possessed. As if that helped her predicament now.
At this moment, while she fought to ignore the violent pounding that felt like a burley, booted thug were stomping away at her skull, Ilaria struggled to make sense of her surroundings, and to remember how she’d arrived at this place. This place, so far as she could tell, was dark, cramped, and smelled slightly of kitty litter. Used kitty litter.
Ilaria felt her body swoop and swerve as though she were a quidditch player zooming high above the pitch. She wondered if she was losing consciousness. Briefly, she ran through the past few weeks, which were finally coming back to her in bits and pieces. Her agent, Greg, wanted her to “polish” her novel and do a bit more research before he tried to push it on publishers. “It’s brilliant, Ilaria, but it takes place in England, girl! England!! And you’ve never even set foot there! Google all you want, girlfriend,” he’d said, in between gulps of diet Pepsi, “but nothing replaces the actual, physical, sensual experience of being there in the flesh. The flesh,” he’d finished, placing emphasis on the repeated word; an annoying habit Ilaria always tried to ignore. And so, she’d emptied her savings and booked a flight. Images flashed through her quivering brain: the plane landing in a perfectly British pea-soup fog; a disappointing tiny room in a not-so picturesque inn, but indescribably scrumptious meals; fabulous greenery so lush it seemed fake to a girl from the Arizona desert, picture-perfect stone castles and tombs, and that fantastic English accent, so delicious, especially when spoken by the good looking guy with black hair and flowing robes…
Ilaria groaned as a sound grated through her head, causing a renewed sensation of searing pain, along with a flash of recognition. She knew that sound! Squealing brakes, a bit like the high-pitched whine of a puppy; the sound her little rented VW made whenever she’d tried to slow down. At the same moment, Ilaria felt her body roll slightly in one direction. Then, the squealing stopped and her body rolled back to where it had been before. She recognized the swooping motions this time for what they were: she was in a car, moving down a road; but she wasn’t in the driver’s seat. She was in the trunk, and her head felt like a melon that had been attacked by a sledgehammer.
ReplyDeleteFighting rising panic, Ilaria gulped the stinking air of her tiny holding cell and tried to recall what had brought her here. The Harry Potter Festival! That was it! She’d been thrilled to discover the festival was in full swing during her stay in England, in the fantastically-named village of Brokenwind, in Aberdeenshire. Only a few hours’ drive. She’d arrived early and happily joined in the festivities, gotten sorted into her house. Hufflepuff. Sheesh. She’d chosen a wand at Olivander’s. Oak, 7 inches, unicorn hair core; much better. Then, she had then joined a crowd of cackling teenagers who listened to a presentation by David Bradley, aka Argus Filch (Mr. Filch!) who recounted hilarious behind-the-scenes stories and did a dead-on impression of a young, soprano-voiced Harry as he opened his very first letter from Hogwarts. Ilaria had giggled along heartily with the crowd as she sipped her Butterbeer in absolute, geeky bliss. Then, she’d spotted him. Severus Snape!
Ilaria, who had secretly harbored a crush for Alan Rickman for about fifteen years, ever since seeing him in Sense and Sensibility, felt her heart turn over for a moment. And then she’d bolted. Literally! In seconds, she was standing before him, panting like a pathetic teenager. And of course, it wasn’t Alan; but the guy wasn’t bad. Wasn’t bad at all! His black hair sprouted from his scalp and fell perfectly onto his broad shoulders. That was real hair, not a wig! What’s more, his flowing robes looked authentic. Unlike the crappy nylon Halloween costumes that cheap retail stores sold; this had the look of a custom-tailored outfit, with gorgeous detailing, like the decorative embroidery on the long sleeves. Ilaria actually felt her knees melt like butter in the hot sun when Snape had looked down his long, sharp nose at her. His eyes were a surprising, pale blue.
Then what had happened? Ilaria tried to stretch her stiff legs as far as the tiny trunk, well “boot,” as they called it here, would allow her, and clutched her hands to her skull, like she was trying to keep it from exploding. They’d chatted, she and Severus. He’d insisted that was his real name; and gamely, she’d gone along with it, blushing a tiny bit when he’d told her that her green eyes were bewitching. They’d wandered over to the local high school gym, which for the festival and been converted to the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Severus had found them seats at one of the long tables, held out Ilaria’s chair for her and served her himself. The pumpkin juice was disgusting; but the smoked turkey legs were passable, and the cake, decorated with tiny chocolate frogs, was fantastic. They’d eaten, and they’d laughed as the man dressed as Dumbledore spoke to the crowd, waving his hands about as though to cast a spell, but bungling the words so badly no one could understand him.
And then, Snape had turned to Ilaria, leaned in close, and kissed her. His lips were warm and strong on hers, and Ilaria felt herself wanting to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him back. And why not? So she did.
And then, he’d whispered in her ear. “I love you, Lilly. Always.” And something had pricked the back of her neck, and that was all she remembered, until she’d awakened with dynamite explosion of a headache in the trunk of her rental car.
He’d called her Lilly. Oh, no.
And the car slowed to a stop, brakes whining. A door slammed. Footsteps crunched outside, then light burst into her eyes as the trunk was opened. Ilaria fought to keep from crying out as she felt herself being lifted from the trunk. Her head was on fire. But some instinct told her to keep her eyes closed and pretend she was still unconscious. Ilaria fought every urge within her that wanted to fight, to struggle, to flee; because she knew she was in no shape to actually succeed. Severus, whoever he was, carried her, murmuring to her as he moved. “Soon, my love. Soon we will be together for all time.”
ReplyDeleteThink, girlfriend! The words came to her in Greg’s voice, and suddenly Ilaria felt a new emotion that warred with the terror writhing inside her: rage. Man, her agent was so dead if she ever got out of this! Finished. Toast. Crucified. Crucio! Ilaria imagined herself yelling as she pointed her wand at the weasel-like man with his wire-frame glasses and his stupid comb-over. Cruciare. To torture. But wait! She’d never finished dissecting that word! The root of “cruciare” was the Late Latin word “crux.” Cross. Hanging tree. Impaling stake.
Unconsciously, Ilaria’s hand fluttered to her neck. The silver cross her grandmother had given her was quite ordinary-looking. No jewels, no carving or decoration of any kind. But inside was something special. Twist the cross and the bottom part came away from the top. It was pointed at the end. Razor sharp. “You never know, Ilaria. Pretty girls like you might need a little help once in a while,” Gran had said, ignoring Ilaria’s protests. And Ilaria had worn her cross, ever since then.
Ilaria shifted her fingers and felt the cold metal of the cross. Her head still pounded, and so did her heart. She opened her eyes a slit to risk a glance at her captor. His eyes gazed ahead, his face shining with an exultant inner light. Do it, Greg’s voice whispered inside her head. Ilaria fingers fumbled, but succeeded in freeing the shaft of the cross from her necklace. Sorry, Severus, Ilaria thought to herself. But you’re one sick dude. And, as she jabbed the cross into the man’s chest, the word burst from her lips. “Crucio!”
Ignoring the sobbing screams behind her, Ilaria fled back to her car.
“Lilly!” the voice behind her howled. “Don’t go!” Ilaria put the car in gear, thanking all the gods that ever were that the man had left the keys in the ignition, and roared down the narrow, cobbled lane. Her head still throbbed with excruciating pain, but she was free.
Okay, so I hope this isn't too "Chucky," but honstly, lately this type of thing is all I've got. I'll try really really really really hard to be all rainbows and butterflies next time. Seriously. :-)
ReplyDeleteI love it! I am laughing so hard! Hehe! You made my night!
DeleteThis is so good, Rebecca! I'm laughing as well!
DeleteYou know, this prompt thing is bitter sweet: good to get me writing, but now I'm posting my bad writing for all to see. Oh well...
ReplyDeleteMy aching head has ne'r before
become my bitter foe.
For once it hates, it ne'r forgets
and brings its owner low.
Bad writing? I haven't seen any bad writing here ... except maybe here and there in my own posts. I think you guys set the bar pretty high in your comments. :-)
Delete