Louise Symons

The Whittler

She sat in roped handcuffs that scratched the circumference of her delicate wrists – ‘cuffs wrapped so tightly the skin on both arms had developed a blue veil. Her wrists were still fit for purpose, and so it would not matter if they turned blue, orange, red, or green. Pain must take a back seat to productivity, and Sophie accepted those wrists were no longer her own.