The pain. It’s long deathly fingers puncture the skin, slithers through the ribcage and seizes your heart. Strong fingers close so tightly that your blood vessels start to burst and your body begins to convulse. A cold chill caresses your spine, numbs your senses and send you into shock. Darkness covers your eyes…
Andas signed aloud to himself as he continues his best to read yesterday’s edition of the village routine orders in the dimly illuminated room; community fees going up next month. The poor weather did little to comfort his mind. Helga’s loud shrill voice continued booming from the back of the kitchen, she was ranting about his spectacular inability to perform the easiest of household chores now,
“And how many times do I have to tell you? Reds don’t go into the wash tub with the whites! Now look what you’ve done! Another braccae spoilt! What’s wrong with you? Can’t you…”
The pain. It picks you up and smothers you in a deadly embrace. It plucks the soul from the very core of your being with cruel fingers, pops it into a black bottomless maw and chews. It bites and sucks the juice that is your personality, your aspirations, your hopes and relishes it. Once done, it spits out what remains of your incorporeal form and rub it into the dirt with a heavy suffocating foot…
Helga was done with nitpicking Andas’ poor housekeeping skills and was now relating to him the events that occurred during the morning’s trip to the market. Andas squirmed uncomfortably in the overstuffed armchair and tried to read, dull brown eyes darting left from right; another sheep missing, Old Grant defaulting on insurance. Still, nothing could dull the formidable voice box of Helga’s,
“Rosy Parker was at the fishmonger’s today and Gregory was with her. Oh, he was such a dear thing! Carrying her heavy baskets and buying those expensive white flowers from that Monty lad to surprise and such…
Now how come you don’t do those things for me?!”
The pain. Helga was pain. Helga was pain personified. And nothing could stop Helga, not even hail nor brimstone could deny the awe-inspiring phenomenon that was Helga ****ed…
It was now or never. Andas knew his moment had come.
“IS THAT YOU PRAND?!” He shouted aloud suddenly to no one in particular,
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“WHAT’S THAT?! YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME?! YOU WANT ME TO COME OUT?! IT’S IMPORTANT?!”
Every word forcefully enunciated.
The disembodied voice of Helga’s queried,
“Why are you shouting Andas? Did you say Prand is here? Why don’t you invite him in?”
A turning point has been reached and the wheels in Andas’ head turned faster,
“WHAT’S THAT PRAND?! YOU CAN’T COME IN BECAUSE YOUR SHOES ARE ALL MUDDY?!”
Meet Helga the cleanliness freak.
“OK PRAND! OK! I’M COMING OUT NOW! HERE I GO!”
With surprisingly quick reflexes, Andas pulled his body off the armchair, sprinted across the room and grabbed his belt and cope from the coats hanger.
“I’m going out to see what Prand wants, dear! Could take a while! Don’t wait up for me! Love yah, bye bye!”
Before Helga could reply, Andas swung open the front door leapt out and slammed it shut. Liberation never felt better.
It was dusk and ominous dark clouds were already forming overhead in the north. Andas was hungry and from the looks of it, he also needed a roof overhead soon too. And he knew just where to go in situations like this.
Adjusting his belt and getting into his cope, Andas Loudewater stepped onto the gravel skewed dirt path and marched briskly over to The Prancing Pony…
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