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The table would turn red-hot, and the scent
of burning flesh would fill her nose, and she
wouldn’t be able to stop it, stop him; she
would sob in agony, as the burns went so
deep, through skin and into bone—
The pressure in her body, her head, faded.
It became secondary as Cairn fished a rolled
pouch from his other pocket. He set it upon
the swath of black velvet, and she could make
out the indents of the slender tools inside.
“For when heating the table grows boring,” he
said, patting the tool kit. “I want to see how
far the burns go inside your skin.”
Bile shot up her throat as he weighed the
flint in his hands and stepped closer.
She began fraying then, who she was and
had been melting away as her own body would
soon melt when this table heated.
The hand she’d been dealt. It was the hand
she had been dealt, and she would endure it.