The rusty chains dig into his thin wrists. The dried bark of an old maple grinds into his bare back. A prisoner in his own backyard.
“Please…” he groans.
She locks eyes with him and grins as she places her index finger near his collarbone. The long, razor-sharp fingernail carves a deep path the length of his torso. It leaves a seeping trail of dark red in its wake.
“I’m so sorry…” he whimpers.
She ignores him as another crimson stripe emerges across his naked chest. The two lines intersect over his pounding heart.
“X marks the spot,” she whispers.
The Weekday One Hundred 