Heads or Tales

He sits there and he looks at my tear-stained face, and he reaches across and wipes some of the moisture away, smiling at me almost tenderly, but with lost eyes, in a face marred with dirt and twisted by evil.

Then, he slaps me hard, suddenly, and I scream out in shock and pain. His face is right in front of mine as he hisses, his spittle hitting my face, "KEEP... TALKING!"

I cry helplessly, shaking with terror, but I talk again, telling my tale, trying to keep my voice steady and my words clear. After all, I am talking for my life. I am bartering to stay alive, with every word I utter.

I am telling my story, and every time I skip details or go too fast, or stutter with fright, he lashes out at me again, forcing me to go back in time, or slow down, or tell it again - AGAIN - from the beginning.

I feel like I have been here for hours, for DAYS even, crouched in the cold and the damp, while this thing - this inhuman creature - eats the words I spew, in his never ending quest to receive the perfect story. My words are his fuel, my emotion his nourishment.

There is not much light in this underground nightmare, but I know that I am surrounded by moist, roundish objects, forming a circle around me. Occasionally my body knocks against one, and I shudder with revulsion because I know what they are... I KNOW. But I can't process the information, because I will turn insane and become a gibbering wreck. And my words will turn to mush, and my story will disintegrate. My story is all I have. My story is keeping me alive.

He sits in there with me for endless hours, tormenting me with endless patience. He has all the time in the world, and he knows what he wants. He told me many hours ago, when I was first captured and brought down into this hell hole.

He needs tales, the best tales, the longest tales, the tales containing every grisly, messy emotion that humans have, every dark secret and every hidden truth, no matter how unsavoury they are or how much we want to hide these aspects of ourselves. If we skip details, if we gloss over facts, he knows. And the axe comes down a little lower.

I know, because I know what I am surrounded with.

My hip knocks against one of the circular objects again, and this time I feel blood and God-knows what else against my skin. I cry out with revulsion, but have learned not to break the flow of the story, and I keep my focus on my journey, on every little thing that I ever experienced; what I said, what I did, what I felt; every little mistake I ever made, as his repulsive face virtually pushes against mine, drinking it all in.

The creature grins with blackened teeth, chattering them together with happiness, as my words flow from my mouth and into his, filling him up. He cannot see in his dark world; words are his light, his joy. But not just words; ugly words. Trauma, distaste, ugliness, hidden things. The things we tuck away in polite society. The betrayals we make, the lies we tell others and ourselves, the moments of cruelty which made us feel powerful for a fleeting moment.

When I finish my story, I collapse to the filthy ground, cradling a headless body for a modicum of comfort and warmth, and I pass out. My captor's clawed hand reaches out and strokes my hair, and he is making a strange sound. I think that he is ‘cooing’ at me. I think I have passed the test, but I am not sure. I no longer care.

Will I keep my head?

When I wake up again, many hours later, I am somewhere else. I am in the light again. People are rushing to help me. The creature is nowhere. The heads are gone. I am free. I told my tale.

*

The creature looks across the darkness at you. Now it is time to tell your tale, little one.