For Flash! Friday
Prompt: Picture of Atlanta Botanical Garden
There are some things about him that are different. There always is. His hair is not as yellow. His cheekbones are not as high. But that smile and those eyes…those are the same. Even after all these years, countless lives, appearing as young and old, he is still able to leave my insides fluttering. My mother called them nerves. I called them love.
He stops. His beauty has me silently begging for my freedom. "She looks sad."
"She would be. Lost love and everything." I know that voice. She is just as powerful now as she was then.
"Is that what it says?" The female—if that is what you would call her—hums. "I want to rescue her, free her."
"Love her" is what I wish he would say.
That laugh, the one I heard just before my green enslavement, haunts me. "In another life, I imagine you would."
In my day, we would call her a witch.