The rain has turned the park into mud. I walk beside her—a lady in black, knee-high boots, heels like daggers, soles already thickly encrusted with dirt. Every step splashes mud. She doesn’t even look down. „Lie down.“ Not an order, just a fact.
I kneel, then lie flat on my back—cold mud seeps through my shirt. She places one boot on my chest, presses down until my breath catches. Then she lifts the other—slowly, deliberately—and places it directly on my face. The sole warm from walking, dirty, wet. The smell: leather, rain, earth, her scent.
„You are dirt,“ she says softly. „Dirt belongs with dirt.“ I breathe only through the cracks in her treaded sole—mud creeps into my nose, mouth. Her eyes are up, cold, amused. My face? Just a platform for her boot. She rocks slightly back and forth. Pressure. Friction. My head sinks deeper into the hole she’s making for me. I am nothing. Just a mat. Just the ground. Only their deck under the boot.
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