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There was barely any light at all in her makeshift prison. The fabric was so close to her eyes that she occasionally felt her eyelashes brush against it. She kept her eyes closed for the most part for this reason. The feeling of her lashes scraping against the woven materials was even worse than being held, immobile, horizontal. A prisoner. Am I really a prisoner? She tried to take a deep breath but her body was bound so tightly that breathing was possible but not easy. She gave thought to the question. She had never truly felt like a prisoner in her whole life, yet there was something there, lingering in the darkness of generations of her family. She had been born to a life that she had not been able to pick. She had been bound to this life from the moment she had been conceived. There was no escape. So, perhaps, yes. She was a prisoner of a sort. Maybe her whole family line was just a never-ending line of prisoners, one after the other, trapped in a cage that they could neither see nor rail against.
What an insidious cage indeed, she thought to herself.
A sharp blow to her prison forced the air out of her lungs for a moment and she struggled to recover her breath. What was that? Had she been dropped? So hoped that it was not the kind of injury that would blemish or bruise—despite her current circumstances and constricted imprisonment, she still had to look good.
There was a clattering noise now. It sounded like the wheels of a cart, perhaps? The jostling back and forth and the tightness in her chest made her feel nauseous. How long would it go on like this? In truth, it went on for quite a while, though she couldn't say exactly how long. There was a chill that was starting to permeate through the fabric and against her skin. Is it already sunset? What a shame, that is not what I had hoped for. She heard the sharp crack of a whip and it sent a wave of goosebumps over her skin. The sound of a horse followed and the jostling of her world started to dwindle to a mere trot. She sighed quietly and wondered how long it would take. She felt her constricting fabric prison hoisted up, taking her breath away for a moment as she felt herself carried along.
"What is that?" Who is that, she wondered. A guard, perhaps?
"It is a gift." She didn't recognize the voice of the person who answered. She frowned, closing her eyes and trying to think—no name came to mind though.
"Very well, bring it through, though do not speak to him, he's very busy and has no time to deal with peasants." Peasants, she bristled.
She was carried further and she heard the flap of a tent as it was pulled aside. A voice came from somewhere outside her prison.
"Another gift? Very well, place it there and let's have a look at it." She smirked slightly. "Quite the expensive rug," he said. You have no idea.
She felt her world start spinning as the rug was slowly unfurled. As the final bit of the rug was opened, she lay there, on the ground, and propped her head on a hand, resting it against her cheek. The man was older, with sculpted features that made him look like the many busts that had been carved of him. Framed by the setting sun, she looked over at him languidly.
"What are you doing here?" He asked, half stumbling his way through the words.
"Taking your breath away."
What an insidious cage indeed, she thought to herself.
A sharp blow to her prison forced the air out of her lungs for a moment and she struggled to recover her breath. What was that? Had she been dropped? So hoped that it was not the kind of injury that would blemish or bruise—despite her current circumstances and constricted imprisonment, she still had to look good.
There was a clattering noise now. It sounded like the wheels of a cart, perhaps? The jostling back and forth and the tightness in her chest made her feel nauseous. How long would it go on like this? In truth, it went on for quite a while, though she couldn't say exactly how long. There was a chill that was starting to permeate through the fabric and against her skin. Is it already sunset? What a shame, that is not what I had hoped for. She heard the sharp crack of a whip and it sent a wave of goosebumps over her skin. The sound of a horse followed and the jostling of her world started to dwindle to a mere trot. She sighed quietly and wondered how long it would take. She felt her constricting fabric prison hoisted up, taking her breath away for a moment as she felt herself carried along.
"What is that?" Who is that, she wondered. A guard, perhaps?
"It is a gift." She didn't recognize the voice of the person who answered. She frowned, closing her eyes and trying to think—no name came to mind though.
"Very well, bring it through, though do not speak to him, he's very busy and has no time to deal with peasants." Peasants, she bristled.
She was carried further and she heard the flap of a tent as it was pulled aside. A voice came from somewhere outside her prison.
"Another gift? Very well, place it there and let's have a look at it." She smirked slightly. "Quite the expensive rug," he said. You have no idea.
She felt her world start spinning as the rug was slowly unfurled. As the final bit of the rug was opened, she lay there, on the ground, and propped her head on a hand, resting it against her cheek. The man was older, with sculpted features that made him look like the many busts that had been carved of him. Framed by the setting sun, she looked over at him languidly.
"What are you doing here?" He asked, half stumbling his way through the words.
"Taking your breath away."
Cleopatra