Page 31 of Acts of Contrition

The door to the basement opens, interrupting my pity party for one.

Thomas has something tucked under his arm, and I also see gauze pads and something that looks like an antiseptic.

What the Hell?

“Take your gown off — you may leave your underwear on — and get on your knees, elbows on the mattress as if you are praying. And pray you will, little sinner.”

His eyes are hard, emotionless with the exception of the same distaste he had on his face ever since night one, when he pissed on me in the tub. I know better than to try and disobeyhim. The punishments are violent, but I can handle them. I don’t want to provoke him into doing more.

I stand and remove the nightgown; he watches, but dispassionately. No sign of the wild man whom I saw the other night, who would’ve taken me no matter what.

Folding it, I put it on the bed and then kneel as he told me to.

The faster I do this, the faster it is over with.

“Move your hair so your back is free.”

I do so, gathering it on one side over my shoulder.

“Fold your hands before you. You will not move from that position unless I tell you to, understood, sinner?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply.

I hear his boots as he walks behind me, at some distance. Maybe two feet? What could he possibly do—

Fuck!

I hear the sound of the whip hitting bare skin before I feel it, and once the sting hits me, I let out an involuntary gasp.

“Good. Let it all out. Cry if you must. Curse. Scream. Unburden your soul so you may be cleansed of the evil within you,” Thomas commands. He whips me again, in a different spot, and I bite my tongue.

I won’t cry. I had all the tears from pain beaten out of me long ago. If Thomas wants to break me, this isn’t how he’ll do it. I won’t let him.

And that is exactly what it seems like he wants to do as he whips me harder, lashing and lacerating my skin. Hot blood trickles down my back, tickling me. It’s an odd sensation in sharp contrast to the pain, and I hate it.

But I won’t let him know.

He grunts as he whips me, as if he’s using all his force. However, I fear this isn’t close to the real strength he has, which would likely kill me. Should I be happy or sad he’s holding back?

“Pray, sinner,” he tells me. “Pray the pain reaches through your sullied soul.”

And I do, unsure if anyone hears me. I pray for relief, for peace, to be loved and cared for and comforted for once in my life.

What did I do that was so evil it required me to live a life of pain?

That thought, asked to a God I am not sure I believe in, almost makes me cry and break. Almost. I won’t. I won’t let another man shatter me.

The strength it takes to hold myself still, to keep my tears at bay, to weather the pain as if it doesn’t feel like my skin has been sliced off, causes sweat to break out on my body. The salt burns the wounds, making my suffering even greater.

If Thomas knew, he would probably be happy.

I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

I lose track of time for how long the torture continues. It could be five minutes or an hour. Tuning it out, diving within myself, helps dull the pain, helps me not react. Only when it has stopped for a few minutes and I hear footsteps do I exit my inner reverie.

Thomas steps behind me and traces his finger down my back, between the open lacerations. I close my eyes, shuddering. He’s too gentle. It doesn’t make sense. And yet, his soft touch combined with the pain is a heady mix. I could get used to this, and that terrifies me.

“Stay still,” he commands, and I hear a hint of frustration in his voice. Something cold touches my back and the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol hits my nose. Only a moment later, my skin is set aflame from the sensation of it hitting the fresh wounds.

---