Mirian is not your average girl. With a drug-dealing Father, and 'pet' keeping brother. She is anything but average. She is a smart-mouthed, gun weilding, fiery young woman with the looks to match. For her it would be a cold day in Hell before anyone got the better of her.
Stephanie is a girl with scars. Not knowing a day without bruises given to her by her own Father, she is obediant, submissive and would go far to avoid a beating.
Mirian and Stephanie are lovers. Fighting through each other
The long corridor was dark. So very dark, that the young girl tripped and stumbled as she made her way down it. Using the cold, stone wall to guide her towards the Masters personal room. It had been a while since she had been summoned, and though the girl had no idea of the time. She knew, judging by the lack of light filtering from the automatic lamps on the ceiling, that she had taken far too long. Fear making her move faster, causing her to trip more, and her breathing to become ragged and uneven.
Step after step, the girl kept on. Her mind telling her to move faster, to get there quicker. Her body screaming for her to run away, find a safe place and stay there.
The child felt her hand brush a new texture, one that was not stone. Wood, she remembered, that’s what it was; wood. Darla had told her that, Darla had taught the girl many things. Not that it would do much good. Not if Master had his way. The boy who had informed the servant girl she was wanted, had described Master as furious, said that she was in for it. The girl did not know what that meant, that she was ‘in for it’ but she knew enough to realise it was not good. It never was when Master was angry.
The girl searched for a handle on the wooden door she had found. She did not dare knock, the noise would only serve to anger the Master further. The handle located, she opened the door slowly, dreading what she might see. She had been expecting to find only Master in his bedroom, that he would do bad things to her again. Painful things. Then send her away again. However, as her eyes adjusted to the sudden light that spilled into the corridor from the Masters room, the young servant girl found her expectations to be, thankfully, incorrect. There was somebody else in the room, a girl, who had never looked so livid in her life.
“You can’t be serious Father! You treat them like slaves, what do you expect me do, let them starve?” Mirian was more than furious, but even so, the young girl could hear an undercurrent of fear in the Masters Daughters voice.
“Yes. Yes I would.” Master seemed to notice the girl for the first time, and drew Mirians attention as he beckoned her closer. The servant girl obeyed, more out of habit than anything, but did not miss the look of horror on Mirians face, the girl did not allow it to show on her own that she’d noticed. She wasn’t sure getting Mirian into any more trouble than she was already in would be very beneficial to herself, or any of the other servants. A gun, small black and deadly, appeared in Masters hand, his shirt sliding back down to hide the holster it had been sitting in. The man fondled the gun, almost affectionately as Mirian eyed it longingly. She did not want the gun. She needed it, in her head she could see herself pulling the trigger, the bullet flying through the air, and entering her Fathers head. This image quickly disappeared at her Fathers next words, her eyes filling with dread.
“Shoot her.” Mirians head snapped up, her mouth forming into an ‘o’ as she shook her head, her eyes flicking between her Father, the gun, and the servant girl, who still stood where she was, watching the entire exchange with wide eyes. The girl knew her life was in Mirians hands now, that her next actions would determine the girls fate. The child did not fear the prospect of death, instead, she welcomed it. In her mind, nothing could be worse than the world she lived in now. Where she knew nothing of who she was before she was taken to this Godless place, not even her own name, and where she was treated like nothing but dirt beneath the Masters shoe.
“I can’t shoot her Father, not her.” The resignation in Mirians voice showed how, regardless her words, she knew her Father would get his way. Either she shoots the girl, and she died a quick, painless death, or her Father does, and the poor child would die the same way she had lived. Painfully.
“You can, and you will.” The handgun was transferred from the Masters hold, strong, confident, and deadly, to Mirians own, softer, more hesitant hold. Mirian held the gun as if it were foreign, as if she had never before held one. Never shot one.
As if she had never before killed.
An apologetic look crossed Mirians face as she looked up from the gun, to the servant girl, as if seeing her for the very first time. ‘I’m sorry’ she mouthed as the gun was lifted into the air, the black metal cool and familiar in Mirians grip as it tightened around the object. The pressure needed to set the gun off was basic knowledge in her mind, she knew how to shoot the gun, and she knew how to hold it, to aim it.
She pulled the trigger.