Pick your poison...

Ever the sucker for some fun, she took the bait and found it had rotted. Her calm exterior belies what’s hidden beneath. The sick feeling overwhelms her and a thin film of perspiration covers her forehead. If you look closely enough, you’ll see the small cracks forming. She quickly hides her frustration by eating a pop tart (chocolate, of course).

With graceful gestures and pleasantries on the outside, she takes the abuse with a smile. Some think she’s a fool and play her for one. Others know the truth. She watches, waits, and learns from other’s mistakes. She keeps a mental tally until one day when she can walk away and not look back.

In the mirror, she peers at her reflection. What is wrong with this picture? The hair is almost right, the tan is good, the Stepford-ish dress is perfection. The shoes on her feet allow painted toenails to peep out. But she knows there is still something missing.

Looking at her face, her eyes flicker and a smile slides onto her face - she knows what is missing.

It is long. It is black. It commands attention.

She reaches up to the post on her bureau that holds her mirror up. Coiled like a snake around the bracket and hidden under a hat, sits her whip. For a moment she giggles. This dresser belonged to her grandparents long ago. Did her grandmother ever own a whip? Probably not. But the thought of a whip-cracking granny makes her laugh.

She takes the whip down. The leather is still taut. It has been unused until this moment. She glances at her reflection. A mix of suburban housewife and dominatrix flash before her eyes. She looks forward to hearing the crack of the whip and seeing the damage being done to her target.

Yes, this is the look she was going for. Pleased with her new look, she heads out of the safety of her room. Ready for whatever comes down the line.

Hopefully, whatever is down the line is ready for her.