I
have learned that I do not like driving. In fact, I’ve fervently wished that I
am the witch they call me I am so I could probably fly to the port rather than drive
through the treacherous road southward.
My
body hurts. Doubly on the areas where my Mayor’s hands held me a little too
tight. Frightened of my leaving, he used me a little too hard before he allowed
himself to drive me out of that miserable little town where I was born. He’s
insisting he would drive me to the port. I do not like it. I want him gone.
But
I didn’t try to dissuade him especially since I’ve discovered that my body does
not agree with this long journeying. I ache. How I ache. Mostly on my bottom
and my lower back. So I’ve decided to use him as much as he could be of use.
Indeed, I question in hindsight my initial plan of having him drive me only to
Wiltshire. I was too naïve and nice.
I
told myself I would start using people, but there I was freeing a willing
slave. It’s a good thing he hates to see me go. Poor, poor man. His appetite
had brought him so low that now he would rather lick my feet than see me go.
When
I imagine leaving him by the port, I find that the image… satisfies me. More
than his warm touches and possessive kisses, the idea of leaving him broken buoys
my spirit.
Oh,
how I like this new me.
But
enough about my lovely Mayor.
I
am writing this, reader, to tell you of that miserable rider we happened upon
two nights ago at a rugged posting inn.
He
looked like a mean man. I do not remember much of his visage, but I remember
that he frightened people as he passed by. This made me curious about him. As I sat there
at the farthest corner of the common room, eating my stale soup and dark bread,
I stared at him.
I
must have been staring at him for a long time, for slowly, as if he was looking
for someone, he turned and scanned the room until his eyes fell on mine. I did
not look away. No. I do not do that anymore. Remember, I have learned the power
of my stare.