last supper fiction by Greta Stone

Last Supper

— 272 word micro fiction —

“Here. One bite. I know you’re hungry,” he said, touching the warm meat to my mouth.

The tantalizing aroma hit me square in the nose. 

With a wiggle, he pressed it harder against my lips. My stomach growled, betraying me. He grinned, raising a brow. I watched carefully for his next move.

In my peripheral, the meat and the fork and the hand holding it floated away and, with a clink, rested on his plate. In the flicker of the candlelight, he stared at it for a moment, pensive. I might have thought he was finally growing tired but a flare of his nostrils told me otherwise. He wasn’t done yet. 

He smoothed his brow and looked up at me, his gaze then tracing down my bare body and back up. “I’m trying to help you.” He leaned closer and wiped juice and gravy off my lip with his thumb. 

I shuddered at his touch and drew away, thonking my head on the post against my back.  

“Stop trying to fight it. You’re only hurting yourself.” He stroked my face, his open palm filling my head with the smell of blood, concrete, and mildew. I winced as his fingers brushed a flaring bruise under my cheekbone. 

“Shh. It won’t be much longer now.”

My eyes watered as panic rose up in my chest. I yanked my wrists against the rope, which refused to give.

“Tsk tsk tsk.” He raised the fork to his mouth and slid the meat off with his teeth. Chewing, he continued. “When will you learn to behave, Amber?”

I swallowed hard. My name wasn’t Amber, but he insisted.

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