The Apocalypse of Blythe
by Bryce Beattie
The smell of vomit hardly bothered Blythe any more. Neither did having to clean the gooey half dried mead and ale from the rickety tables after all the drinkers had gone. She could ignore the majority of the lewd shouting and coarse language. She didn’t mind ending every night smelling like the customers’ pipe smoke and sweat. The only thing Blythe really hated about working in her father’s tavern was Garron, and tonight she’d had enough of the lecherous dog.
Blythe dumped the ale in his lap and slammed the mug on the table.
Garron scrambled with both hands, trying in vain to brush the liquid from his lap.
His friends broke out in one of their boisterous laughs. They’d probably never seen Garron treated this way, especially by a tavern wench.
Garron’s nostrils flared and he looked up at the raven haired beauty that had embarrassed him.
Blythe didn’t wait for the pig’s response. Her hand leaped up and slapped him full across the face.
Garron was too shocked to do anything. The fool wasn’t used to women putting up any kind of fight. He usually had his way with anyone he wanted.
His fat friends, of course, laughed all the harder.
A wave of satisfaction rolled through Blythe’s body. Serves him right. She spun around, stormed back across the tavern floor, and stepped behind the bar.
Her father grabbed her arm and leaned in to her ear. “What are you thinking? His family could have us crushed.”
She jerked her arm free. “He needs someone to teach him a lesson.”
It dug at her heart. Not even her own father cared enough to protect her from a brigand like Garron. Just because his family’s rich. She set back off to her work, never looking directly at her father or Garron’s table.