PHOTO PROMPT © Lily

Spoiled

Although I’m sitting poolside at my villa, sipping Margarita, my soul feels like chipped, latex-coated lead: cheap, artificial, and toxic. The adage goes, how did I get to this place; but I know, know how, and who is to blame. When you’ve had enough trauma cast upon you as an innocent, you get twisted enough to conjure it on your own as an adult.

“Hector, when you’ve finished with my toes, please fetch me another drink.”

Hector’s god-like face smiles at me adoringly, imperceptibly nodding.

I watch his bronzed David form rise and pad to the tiki.

I sigh, bored.

[100 words]

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the host of Friday Fictioneers.