Twelve | A flash fiction story
70 of đź’Ż
The large woman frowned, the creases on her forehead painted over by the mixture of dark dust and sweat. She took off her protection helmet and crossed her arms.
“Is this the boy?” she asked.
“Yes it is,” the scruffy man said proudly, and he smacked the kid on the back.
The boy scowled, vacant eyes.
“His name is Jax,” the man said. “He’s my finest product. Look at this arm!” The man raised the boy’s hand and poked at his firm bicep. “Look at his abs!” He raised the kid’s shirt to reveal his well-defined musculature. “He’s twelve, for goodness’ sake. Twelve! I gave him some fine genes.” He laughed.
“Sure,” the woman said, her mouth a thin line. “Stamina?”
“Twelve hours of intense labor with barely any food.” The man grinned. “How do you think he got this chiseled?”
The woman studied little Jax as he held an empty gaze, closed fists on his sides, a soul covered in bruises, a raging mind shackled by dark memories.
“Four thousand,” the woman finally said.
“For the finest fruit of my seed?” The man pulled Jax back. “Do you think I don’t know Atlanta pays you a fortune for the stupid rocks you mine all day? You can do better than that.”
The woman guffawed. “For a kid? No, I can’t do better than that.”
They argued over the price but Jax didn’t catch any of it. His mind was screaming inside a dark cave, begging for someone to come unchain him. He couldn’t see the shapes talking money outside, only their monstrous shadows on the wall.
He didn’t hear them getting to a final price. His blank stare pierced through the handshake that sealed the deal, that sealed his fate.
< Memory Dump | Twelve | Olympus >
