That moment when you realize you have sat, poised to write, for the better part of the night and not written a word. That terribly dreadful moment when you must slice meaty chunks from your emotion torn heart and let them come to lay up a blank page to be inspected like so much butcher shop meat. When tears darken the paper more than ink.
It's funny...when you're dead, that moment can last for decades. That's what this night feels like already and I can tell it had only just begun.
The blank page is accusing me of procrastination. It may very well be right, but then who can blame me, most people can not even come close to remember the moment of their births it was so traumatic. That searingly horrible event horizon of bright light spiking into eyes that have never known light. A scream of pain as nerves that have never know anything but warmth experiencing the bone chilling cold of the world. Cover in bloody, and wet from the womb we all emerge into a world where we are already dieing. Tiss only the love of family that keeps newborns from becoming insane.
I close my eyes to the biter memories of when I lost that famille love, and all for those few moments of banal pleasure in the arms of a whore.
Tasting bile, I apply quill to page and let it scratch in a viperous manner..
Father had me and the maid taken to the stables, her across the withers of a guard's horse. Her open, sex-wet cunt being subject to his finger play the whole way no doubt.
Me?
I had not so gentle a journey. A rope was passed around my feet and, with my trousers still around my knees, I was dragged behind my father's horse. The broken rocks and knife-bladed grasses cutting and tearing at my skin as I tumbled on the end of that rope. Would that such a minor scourging was all the pain that I felt that day. But alas no.
Upon arrive at the stable, Father ordered me hung from a rafter beam, my hands tied and the hook the grooms lift tack into the loft with passed through the knot. When my feet were just brushed the ground, I was left to beg forgiveness from an unhearing, uncaring world, while Father had his horses taken care of and he dealt with the maid. He cursed her, reviled her, "The very whore of Babylon herself!" Then, to my horror, that gentleman did what I would have never thought him capable of. He turned his guards and stablemen lose upon her.
Swinging on my hook, like the very caught fish I was, I protested her rape. Her screams as they took her were daggers into my ears and the sight of her ravishment was like leaches upon my eyes. While I kicked at the air and screamed words that were unheeded, they took her, one after the other in a very orgy of violation. Filling her with load of male seed, after load of seed till her cunt ran with white foam.
Calmly, as if the maid's screams were nothing new to him, Father walked over to me. In an equally calm voice he explained why he was doing what he was doing. She could not now claim that the bastard conceived baby, that must be even now taking root in her womb, was a child of this family. His family. Better this sordid rumor, and the light scandal that it would bring, than the more humiliation loss that accusation would have wrothed. He had no intentions of letting a bastard have a claim to his estate.
"Most certainly not one as ill-got as you. I will not have such as you take my place."
Mindlessly, I mumble the words. That few collection of such terrible words with which my father sealed so many fates that ill-fated day. Mine, the maid's, his own, his guards, the Reeves, my mother's...so many lives to be devastated and destroyed over such few words. It should take many more to do the incontestable levels of damage that those few did...but then every avalanche begins with but a single snow flake. Every flood is but a drop of rain and its friends.
How like hot irons those words seared me.
But not so much as the lashes of that carters whip!
The sharp flaying knife of one of Father's huntsmen sliced away my clothes, while I tried to wiggle away from it, succeeding in only causing myself to be cut by its edge. My feet were then tied together and to a heavy weight, a spare wagon axle, that was put beneath me and then with callous disregard I was soon stretched tight as a fiddle bow between weight and rafter. Then the blows of that whip began to land.
Oh, to pristine virgin skin, that had never felt more than the birch rod of a school masters ire, that leather whip was living torture. White hot lines of fire that sprung up from a point of shock then burned to the bone, a lingering fire to be quickly replaced with another such point of shock. A bit of my torn clothes was stuffed into my mouth after the first few and tied in place with the lacing off my doublet. The raw cordage biting into the corners of my mouth fiercely.
Over and over and over rained the blows. I screamed and was ignored as easily as the cries of the maid were still being ignored. I looked over at her, laying there now stripped to skin and stockings and found her eyes upon me. Eyes filled with hate and with a relishing of pleasure as she enjoyed the site of my whipping.
My face wet with tears, my mouth stuffed with gagging clothe, my back alight with parquetry patterns of flame, I writhed and twisted. Doing nothing more for my struggles than giving them whip more fresh skin to taste.
And the humiliation! I shut my eyes to the grinning faces of my fathers people, who one and all seemed to be enjoying the sight. The thrice damnable misery of it was that I could not keep them shut, the blows of the whip would send them springing open wide. It also seemed that after every such moment of self imposed darkness the numbers of people watching would have grown. First just the few guards, the Reeve and the stablemen, but then there would be others and still the blows of the whip landed, and then more and more lines of fire.
Leaning back from my page I reach up and touch my hand to the pocket of my doublet, feeling the warm little bundle sleeping within. Stygie must think me his mother and that pocket his haven against the evils of this place. So be it. If I can keep one thing safe then I have done my singular angelic deed for my...unlife.
"Father's arm grew tired." I tell my little friend, not that he stirs at my words. He sleeps the deep sleep of the contend and happily fed. Such a sleep as I knew when I was a child. "But not his anger. he turned the blood drenched whip over to his stableman, the one often given the task of breaking unruly draft horses to a yoke."
Father directed the whipping to continue til the bastard begged. I was already doing such begging, had been doing it since the first blow...but then I understood. It was not the begging but the bastard part I would have to acknowledge. Oh, how my pride arose to fight that pain then. I was a Gascony born! His true son!
But pride verses a whip? The winner of such a ballet of macabre was preordained.
It was only after Father left to go take his lunch and I was left to dangle with the whimpers of the still being ravaged maid for my comfort did I get some relief. And that was so incredibly short, for he was not long departed when one of his guards took back up the whip. I shook my head and tried to pull away, causing nothing more than a swaying that tore at my wrists.
I cried out when he ran the handle of the whip down my back; the hard knob of knotted leather a burning brand against raw skin. Laughing, he spun me around to face him. His eyes looked me up and down, a smirk bespeaking his mouth. With his chin he pointed me towards the maid, who was being taking in the way of the sodomite at that moment. Can you imagine how much that must hurt he asked, then with a laugh he let me spin back.
I shook my head frantically when I felt the handle of that whip pressed between my cheeks of my arse. Even the gag could not contain the scream the moment of my impalement brought forth. The laughter of the gather crowd burned but not so much as that invasion.
Looking down, I see a pair of glass-like eyes looking up from within the darkness of my pocket. I smile at the tiny fangs that appear with his yawn.
