supplicium post mortem

The coal burned brightly in the grate, but the room was cold, leaking the gale which blew down Wester-Ross. Mr. Prior had summoned her for a Little Chat, which Casey found unfair on holiday. Worse, he had announced uniform inspection. She hadn’t worn her uniform in forever. The iron at the cottage was temperamental. The whole proposition irked her.

“Come here,” he said, beckoning with crooked finger, his voice friendly, mock-stern. She shuffled towards him, rolling her eyes. “A bit less of that, thank you!” he snapped. She sighed, pointedly.

He switched on the extra light and began to take issue with her clothing. Did she call those shoes polished? What did she think she was doing with the knot on her tie? (This as he retied it for her.) And what, pray heaven, did she call those? He pointed to her shorts.

“The iron was stupid!”

He crossed his arms and stared at her. “I think you had better rethink your approach, young Casey. Your uniform is a disgrace—disgrace, and we’re already due a chat about several matters.”

“What?” she protested.

“You know perfectly well what,” he replied dryly. She sulked. “Turn out your pockets.”

“What!”

“Now.”

She sulked mightily as she emptied her blazer’s long-unexamined pockets of whatever they might contain.

“Chewing gum…detritus…cigarettes, Casey? And matches for the win, is it?”

“I—I didn’t know—”

He took her by the ear. “Let’s take all that as read, shall we? It’s clearly long past time for our little chat.”

• Rafi
• Graham
• Dominoxx
• PapaTomLA