Drystan

CHAPTER ONE

She raises the dagger above her head, staring at herself in the mirror, standing there in her bra and lacy shorts. It is the middle of the night. The room is dark, lit by a dim lamp in the corner.

For some reason, her hands are shaking. Freya tries to take deep breaths. To keep the beating of her heart quiet.

She is pregnant. She has no idea who the father of her child is. Heck! She's never had sex.

Lowering the dagger, she lets the tip touch her belly, still flat. She tries to push it in but her hands are shaking too badly to be of any use. Her palms are sweaty. She raises the dagger again.

Her mind wonders back to her childhood. To the times she would care for the calves and lambs in her father's farm. He'd said what a great mother she'll make.

Now, she stares at her reflection. Her eyes are a piercing brown, muddled up against deep chocolate brown skin, underneath thick, black eyebrows. She looks down, to her body, down to her ravishing curves, her thick thighs, her big backside, her slim waist. She feels her full kinky hair rubbing against her shoulders.

She is a black beauty, enchanting in all acceptation of the word, or so people call her. Black. Enchanting. Stunning. All she sees is a hideous soul staring back at her.

Freya squeezes the dagger, gulping. This is what she wants. She can't love this thing inside of her. So why is she hesitating?

She lowers it. But the dagger falls before it can reach her skin. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she mutters ---
      
"Coward."

Turning around, she lets herself slide down the mirror. She does not know how long she sits there, hands on her knees, head bowed.

After a while, her phone buzzes. She picks it up beside her.

"Hey." Comes a male voice. "Did I wake you?"

"No, I just tried to kill myself."

He laughs, not believing her. "I need you to come over."

"Sure."

                  __________________

She is dressed in a brown overcoat draped over a brown shirt, matching trousers and black boots.

They walk down a dimly lit hallway. Mark is saying something but Freya isn't listening.

"Hmm?" She says.

"I said, don't be too hard on him."

"When you asked me to interrogate him, what did you expect? That I'll beg him?"

"No but..." He sighs. "Just don't kill him."

"Who said anything about killing him? I can't promise that I won't break a few bones though." She shows him a rope bulging out of her pocket.

He begins to speak again when she walks into a room and shuts the door.

The room smells of sweat and torture. It is dimly lit, almost empty. Just the way she likes it --- far removed from the outside world. There is a table in front of a chair in which a man sits.

Freya makes her way to him. His head is bowed, his hands tied behind the chair. She walks behind him, her boots making a clicking sound. Slowly, she crawls her fingers, across his bare shoulders. Her long nails brush against his skin. She knows he feels it but pretends to be asleep.

"Tell me, why did you kill him?" She whispers, dragging her words as her fingers make their way down his arms, slurring across his skin.

When he doesn't reply, she moves to sit on the table, beside him.