Prohibited Pain by Fran Sutton

You, yes you, the object of my dreams, you are my world. I feel the embers of a furnace burn within me as I think of the future we have. I watch you through the gates, tempting me, catching my eye and shyly smiling, a look of total trust on your face.

Finally, the day has come for action. I conceal myself in a shrub and wait. Sure enough, here you come, the light framing your gentle features, your skirt lifting slightly as it catches the breeze. You trot over to me and tug at my dress hem, grinning as though you know my secret. But you do know, of course you do, because you felt the connection too.

I get out of the cab, holding the limp body in my arms, tears running down my face as blue uniformed figures swarm out of the back of an opened truck, their gold badges glinting in the cloudless sky. They surround me and pause, hand on hips as they survey the scene they are confronted with. The man in charge steps forward, demanding something that won’t be given. I cling onto my precious cargo, knowing that letting go will bring my whole world crashing down around me.

The man asks me again, and through my blurred vision I see that some of his longer moustache hairs are creeping over his upper lip. It must tickle when he talks.

All at once, the men around me spring into action. I hear a bang, and drop to my knees, the world around me spinning as my grip loosens and the dead weight begins to fall. You topple to the floor and I can only watch as the men gather you up carelessly, sling you over a sturdy shoulder and carry you off, far away from me.

I try to scream but my voice has stopped working – the noise that bubbles in my throat is a low groan of agony as I realise the red puddle on the floor is getting bigger, and is coming from me.