Some nights the
chandlers would come.
They would take me
in my sleep and do things on me.
Tied on a wooden
altar, I could only stare at their bleak, static faces, as they
scrutinized my body.
The one who doesn't
speak, always cared for my perfect alignment against the altar. My
hands touching my thighs, my knees and ankles touching together.
The one who never
talks, carried a heavy, leather bag. The metallic tools contained
within were carefully arranged along an invisible surface. Even
though, I could not turn my head to look at them, I knew they were
pointed at me.
The third one, the
one who only smiles, she would just stay unmoving in front of my
face. Eyeless and white. Like trying to distract me from everything
about to happen.