Whoever coined the saying time heals got it wrong. Wounds scab and leave scars, if it must. But the pain lingers, an eternal imprint carved into the brain and soul.
I was a nobody in the midst of the wealthy who shared drinks and whispered small talks about the upcoming auction. I felt out of place.
This was no run-of-the-mill auction. Held once a year and sponsored by the prince, only rare items and people were sold.
A lanky brown man took to the raised stage, arms flung wide, a wide smile on his face as he welcomed the bidders. There were no chairs. Everyone stood, holding their paddles.
I stopped breathing when they brought him out.
A young man just shy of his twenties with chains on his legs was guided onto the stage to perform. Silence fell as every eye gazed at him. They would have swallowed him whole if they could.
It had been three thousand days! Yet the wound felt fresh, as if he had been taken from me only moments ago.
He was changed. Ghastly thin with shaggy dark hair, his soft brown eyes dull. The twinkle and love in them were gone, only pain trapped within.
Once he held his violin in the crook of his neck, his gaze met mine. I blinked twice and held my breath. I was here to save my boy and would die trying, if it came to that.
Then he blinked back and I started to breathe again.
When his bow struck the violin and the first note of his ballad poured into the room, I almost bawled. He'd written it for me many years ago.
He mesmerised the crowd with the song as though they'd never owned him at all.
I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece. It's inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt phrase "three thousand days".
Thank you for visiting my blog.
Image credit: Pixabay
