Liberty Slave, The Girl In The Black Dress
Okay this is a new one of my stories, it is original and I have just renamed the characters, and how they look. It is a bit out of character, but I believe it is one of the only flaws of this story. Please do not take any of my ideas, as I said previously it is one hundred percent original. Please R&R because it will make my day.
I feel my knees collapse from beneath me and notice that my breathing is laboured and harsh. For the fifth time today I repeat the same line that I have memorised off by heart, 'Shut up, keep calm and don't say anything unless you want to pay for it.' My head hurts and my knees feel weak, and with my fists clenched by my side I ignore the red that flashes before my eyes and the anger that builds up inside my chest making it hard to breathe. With my dress that clearly brands me as a slave; I start to scrub the floor with nothing but a sponge and a bucket of water. There were easier ways to do it, like using a mop; but this was my punishment; this and a slap across the face and push to the ground. After telling Rowling to clean up the mess he made himself.
I only expected him to throw his food all over the floor and tell me to clean it up; after all he wasn't exactly prone to temper tantrums. I look up to see him bending over me, his face was pudgy and his face was still red from the outburst he had earlier. His ugly hair which was a dirty blonde was swept to the side like a 'gentleman', and his face showed a full out ugly sneer as he crossed his hands over his chest and looked down on me. I simply scowled at him before realising that I had already finished scrubbing. Anger burnt up in my chest as I looked at him again, he was so arrogant, so evil and my breaths had become ragged as my anger grew and I saw him grab a glass of his vodka and look at me haughtily.
'Shut up, keep calm and don't say anything unless you want to pay for it.' I sat still and emotionless as he poured cold vodka down my back, and I stood there waiting like a predator waits for its prey to make the first move before striking it with an easy manoeuvre and killing it. I then felt the ice slide down my shirt. That was it for me; I totally lost it, so much for keeping calm. I threw him up against the wall my fist balling up in his collar and without thinking twice about it I punched him hard and fast and with elite grace. Blood splattered against the wall, painting my mark there, it trickled down like when you flick your paintbrush at a canvas. Only my canvas was a wall, my paintbrush was my fist and the colouring was blood. I smiled cruelly, and hit him again; he shrunk to the ground and covered his face; his cruel smile wasn't there now, but mine replaced his. God I had been waiting to do that for months. My fist moulded into his cheekbone perfectly as if I was destined to punch the guy- hell maybe it was. One my fist hit his socket- that's for murdering my mother, Two- that was for being a bully every time he saw the chance and took it because "I wasn't allowed to hit him." Stuff that rule- you know what- jack the rules. Three that's for- there was no three.
It took every ounce of self-control to resist hitting him one more time let alone my fantasies off hitting one hundred more. Because he was my master and I was, wait for it, his slave. His goddamn slave that wasn't meant to touch him without his permission let alone punch him in the face. That comment snapped me back to the present. I scowled at Rowling who was huddled in the corner, cradling his broken nose with both hands and trying to get into furthest possible corner away from me. I knew I couldn't come back here; I couldn't come back to this house. Because I knew that Slaves that did what I just did, could be punished by death. I know it's harsh but what slave is going to protest out front of the President's mansion when his guards have permission shot us if we get within a 200 metre radius of it?
Welcome to my hell of a life. And little did I know, how much more of a hell it would become.