Heroes don't win (open)
Oct 1, 2011 2:32:38 GMT -5
Post by Kingly on Oct 1, 2011 2:32:38 GMT -5
"18"
The unrelenting knots of the whip slashed across exposed flesh, tearing open the thirteenth gouge over a scarred back. My back. Sweat pours down into the open wounds, spawning a rich burning sensation in the flesh. I clench my teeth and fight my own bodies screaming, this is nothing compared to what I've faced before.
"19"
The whip lashed again. Another red line opens up.
"20." the final lash came down. I fashion a cringy smile in a demented victorial fashion. The rope hold my wrists to the pole is slashed by a peacekeepers knife. A whip cracks as it is coiled and I crash to the ground. I hear the laughter of the keepers as I try to pick myself up. A boot drives into my stomach, "Heroes don't win."
They walk away in high spirits, just as stumbly and heavy boots run to my side. A boy kneels beside me, five shallow cuts aligned with long red stripes stretch across his back. I feel a wet rag, or maybe a shirt, pulled across the shedded skin where the whip met my being.
"Why did you do that?" The boy whispers as the other men tend to my lashes.
"Why not?" I whisper back, "You're not big enough to face the whip."
The boys head cocks to the side, confusion ever present in his expression, "but why?"
I simply smile at him. Then I brace my arms and force myself from the ground, the two people tending to me are objecting as I stumble away. I pick up my sweater from the whipping post and my cloak from the ground. My muscles fight my every whim, they scream in agony as I redress my attire. But I am redressed, leaving these people behind as I walk away. I travel a fair distance, and I can feel blood descending in a solid trickle down the scars lining my back. The stinging subsides, only to make room for a more steady brook of crimson life to run my back and into the fabric of my sweater.
"Just deal with the pain and find a doctor," I tell myself. But I find my mind wandering, along with my body. When the realization of reality comes full circle, I'm walking alongside the district people. They carry saws, some axes as they ready for the day's labour. Shops and some stalls line this road, but they soon change to homes as the lumber mills come into view. I join this long line of people headed to the logging yards. Then I feel it.
"not now..." I whisper.
It creeps up my legs, it's crawling under my skin. The pain in my back seems trivial to what builds within. Soon strength in my legs are failing, simply breathing creates a sheering rip of pain through my chest. My legs give way as I collapse on the dirt path, whimpering. The agony is almost like ravaging claws tearing at my veins until they reach flesh or bone. And it's everywhere. I can't move. Some people stop and shake their heads at me, but they move on. I can only wish to cry for help, for anyone to help.
The unrelenting knots of the whip slashed across exposed flesh, tearing open the thirteenth gouge over a scarred back. My back. Sweat pours down into the open wounds, spawning a rich burning sensation in the flesh. I clench my teeth and fight my own bodies screaming, this is nothing compared to what I've faced before.
"19"
The whip lashed again. Another red line opens up.
"20." the final lash came down. I fashion a cringy smile in a demented victorial fashion. The rope hold my wrists to the pole is slashed by a peacekeepers knife. A whip cracks as it is coiled and I crash to the ground. I hear the laughter of the keepers as I try to pick myself up. A boot drives into my stomach, "Heroes don't win."
They walk away in high spirits, just as stumbly and heavy boots run to my side. A boy kneels beside me, five shallow cuts aligned with long red stripes stretch across his back. I feel a wet rag, or maybe a shirt, pulled across the shedded skin where the whip met my being.
"Why did you do that?" The boy whispers as the other men tend to my lashes.
"Why not?" I whisper back, "You're not big enough to face the whip."
The boys head cocks to the side, confusion ever present in his expression, "but why?"
I simply smile at him. Then I brace my arms and force myself from the ground, the two people tending to me are objecting as I stumble away. I pick up my sweater from the whipping post and my cloak from the ground. My muscles fight my every whim, they scream in agony as I redress my attire. But I am redressed, leaving these people behind as I walk away. I travel a fair distance, and I can feel blood descending in a solid trickle down the scars lining my back. The stinging subsides, only to make room for a more steady brook of crimson life to run my back and into the fabric of my sweater.
"Just deal with the pain and find a doctor," I tell myself. But I find my mind wandering, along with my body. When the realization of reality comes full circle, I'm walking alongside the district people. They carry saws, some axes as they ready for the day's labour. Shops and some stalls line this road, but they soon change to homes as the lumber mills come into view. I join this long line of people headed to the logging yards. Then I feel it.
"not now..." I whisper.
It creeps up my legs, it's crawling under my skin. The pain in my back seems trivial to what builds within. Soon strength in my legs are failing, simply breathing creates a sheering rip of pain through my chest. My legs give way as I collapse on the dirt path, whimpering. The agony is almost like ravaging claws tearing at my veins until they reach flesh or bone. And it's everywhere. I can't move. Some people stop and shake their heads at me, but they move on. I can only wish to cry for help, for anyone to help.
