November Eleventh
by
Lisby

"I feel Walt kneading a nub of scar tissue on the side of my wrist. The nerves there spark. I haven't told him how I gained these marks of crucifixion.... Walt's thumb goes around and around my ugly little scar, and the nerve shocks almost make me twitch. I'm not ready to discuss their clever method of restraint and deterrence: the long thick needles through my flesh. I quickly learned to hold still or to beg for straps, admitting I was a weak inferior who needed help to cooperate. But there were still times when I had to fight. I remember the spikes rubbing my bones and ligaments as I struggled, the jangle of nerves, the leaking blood."

Click to read.


Winner of a Silver Sutures Award for Best Short Story.


Stories

Home