Moving old writings...This was actually the first piece inspired by "The Last Polka"
The Last Polka - The same song this is based on. It just happens to be an incredibly inspirational piece of music. An acid-induced fast piano, a little percussion, Ben Folds' lyrics...not much else.
This was written in March and has no title. Except maybe....
“We are going to turn you into a mermaid, sweetie,” one of the guys crooned at her, and it made the other guys laugh with glee.
“Yeah, every little girl wants to be a mermaid sometime, right?”
One was kneeling behind her, pinning back her arms at the crook of her elbows, the other holding the strings of thread. But it wasn’t the kind of laugh you would usually expect in this situation, not that coarse, alcohol-induced cackle. Bizarrely, it sounded more like the amused giggle of schoolboys doing a science experiment. Packet of mentos pills and a soda bottle, that sorta thing. Teenage boys, if you thought about it. Everyone was defying their own cliché these days…
The room was messy, though. Computer spare parts were scattered around like a little boy’s toybricks, the carpet was littered with leftover food, cookie crumbs, hardened pizza edges. They were sitting on the ground, and she could feel cigarette butts poking out.
It made her wish for something not so real.
The windows were darkened, the only illumination came from a PC monitor at the far end. Some weirdly fast-paced piano music was coming out of the speakers.
She heard the sharp zipping noise as he fastened the first string around her ankles, slammed her eyes shut with pain, concentrated on the lyrics.
Shalala, shalala, lalala, the end is growing near, though we're treading water now and holding back our tears. And the day is rising, we're singing…
The singer was good.
Who knew bastards could listen to such good music?
Another sharp zip and the next piece of string cut into her skin, higher up the ankles this time. Her eyes were forced back to attention, saw the angular line as it pushed into her ankle, and her skin pulsing in response.
“How many you got?” the one at her elbows asked.
“Enough.”
He bound the third string into her calf. Trying to ignore the pain as it slowly throbbed underneath. Her skin was beginning to turn red.
Mutely, she looked at the one hand holding all the pieces of cable string. It occurred to her how meticulous he was in this work - the strings were all different sizes, yet he chose the according one with the care of a good surgeon.
The fourth cable string, pain shooting through her ligated feet. The strain of not screaming, not looking, not thinking, was making her eyes tear. She wanted to concentrate on the song, but the last notes of the piano were playing.
The toes were beginning to numb.
“Our pretty little mermaid,” the guy who did all the work crooned again.
Mermaid.
Maybe that was the key.
If she held onto notions that were plainly unreal - not as real as the cable string, the guys, the carpet with the cigarette butts or the piano in that song - maybe it would turn out to be a dream. The trick was to find the slightest crack of unreality, and then hold onto it, enlarge it, until it surrounded you.
He took his time tightening the next string, carefully threading the nylon through the ratchet and letting it wander down onto her legs. The pain spread more slowly.
Mermaid. Turn me into a mermaid. So I can swim away.
But there was no fairy godmother this time, no one who considered her worthy of that chance.
The nylon cut through a vein at her ankle and blood came bursting out.
Torture.
There were several ways you could inflict it.
This was written in March and has no title. Except maybe....
“We are going to turn you into a mermaid, sweetie,” one of the guys crooned at her, and it made the other guys laugh with glee.
“Yeah, every little girl wants to be a mermaid sometime, right?”
One was kneeling behind her, pinning back her arms at the crook of her elbows, the other holding the strings of thread. But it wasn’t the kind of laugh you would usually expect in this situation, not that coarse, alcohol-induced cackle. Bizarrely, it sounded more like the amused giggle of schoolboys doing a science experiment. Packet of mentos pills and a soda bottle, that sorta thing. Teenage boys, if you thought about it. Everyone was defying their own cliché these days…
The room was messy, though. Computer spare parts were scattered around like a little boy’s toybricks, the carpet was littered with leftover food, cookie crumbs, hardened pizza edges. They were sitting on the ground, and she could feel cigarette butts poking out.
It made her wish for something not so real.
The windows were darkened, the only illumination came from a PC monitor at the far end. Some weirdly fast-paced piano music was coming out of the speakers.
She heard the sharp zipping noise as he fastened the first string around her ankles, slammed her eyes shut with pain, concentrated on the lyrics.
Shalala, shalala, lalala, the end is growing near, though we're treading water now and holding back our tears. And the day is rising, we're singing…
The singer was good.
Who knew bastards could listen to such good music?
Another sharp zip and the next piece of string cut into her skin, higher up the ankles this time. Her eyes were forced back to attention, saw the angular line as it pushed into her ankle, and her skin pulsing in response.
“How many you got?” the one at her elbows asked.
“Enough.”
He bound the third string into her calf. Trying to ignore the pain as it slowly throbbed underneath. Her skin was beginning to turn red.
Mutely, she looked at the one hand holding all the pieces of cable string. It occurred to her how meticulous he was in this work - the strings were all different sizes, yet he chose the according one with the care of a good surgeon.
The fourth cable string, pain shooting through her ligated feet. The strain of not screaming, not looking, not thinking, was making her eyes tear. She wanted to concentrate on the song, but the last notes of the piano were playing.
The toes were beginning to numb.
“Our pretty little mermaid,” the guy who did all the work crooned again.
Mermaid.
Maybe that was the key.
If she held onto notions that were plainly unreal - not as real as the cable string, the guys, the carpet with the cigarette butts or the piano in that song - maybe it would turn out to be a dream. The trick was to find the slightest crack of unreality, and then hold onto it, enlarge it, until it surrounded you.
He took his time tightening the next string, carefully threading the nylon through the ratchet and letting it wander down onto her legs. The pain spread more slowly.
Mermaid. Turn me into a mermaid. So I can swim away.
But there was no fairy godmother this time, no one who considered her worthy of that chance.
The nylon cut through a vein at her ankle and blood came bursting out.
Torture.
There were several ways you could inflict it.