I knew when I saw her face I’d be dead that afternoon.
The smile so frighteningly sweet, her purple cat’s eyes aglow. A purple known only to those buried, lost, in the lavender fields beyond. Behind her desk she crouched, fingertips pressed, her whetted nails her favourite shade of ecstasy. Violence.
I clenched my damp hands prayer-like. ‘I’m no snitch, Patrone.’
‘No? Then who squealed?’
Perhaps the truth would save me. Meekly I whispered, ‘Your daughter. Violet.’
The lioness roared, and pounced, her knife as pungent as her claws. Her soldiers held me down, down, in her purple surrounds.
Lavender beckons.
[ a 100-word story featuring the words ecstacy; damp; meekly; patron.]
Photo by Koon Chakhatrakan on Unsplash
