The Bridle
Saliva pooled on her tongue beneath the rusty depressor. She endured a constant urge to swallow, afraid of choking on her own fluids. The taste of metal and blood are so akin, it is easy to mistake one for the other. This early in the day, blood was rare. The raw corners of her mouth usually healed enough overnight to withstand her mornings under the bit.
She always paused, hand hovering in indecision, before lifting the iron latch and opening the front door. She wrestled with the desire to lock herself in and avoid facing the world. A part of her was surprised she had not yet let hopelessness fold in upon her, allowing herself to wither into a lonely death at home. There must have been some part of her former self, that relentlessly determined part, that would not allow her to surrender.
She emerged on the front step, a reluctant performer stepping out upon a stage. Slightly blinded by the sunlight, she sensed the gaze of an audience falling upon her partially obscured face. The iron scaffolding that held her gag in place formed a triangle around her nose before tracing her head’s central meridian up and over her crown to meet the bit band at the nape of her neck. She nervously fingered the folds of her skirt as she made her way down the stone walk. A familiar sight to her neighbors, she still provided them an opportunity to demonstrate their disgust and moral superiority, which was rarely overlooked. Scornful whispers and glares of disdain were the most common ways they communicated their reproach. Occasionally a more aggressive tact was taken. This morning, she felt a spoiled vegetable sail past her right ear and into the clean linens she had hung out to dry. Her startled jolt was followed by unconcealed snickers from the children and adults alike.
