Page 52 of Degradation
He waves his hand, proving what we both know, that he doesn’t actually give a fuck about the girl. “We need to talk. There are rumours, murmurings about Gunther…” he says, his tone turning serious, his voice low enough that only I can hear him. Not that anyone is nearby, but with Oblivion, you can’t trust the walls, you can’t trust anything.
“I don’t give a damn about Gunther or your petty politics.” I interrupt, my anger simmering just below the surface once more.
He grabs me again, pulling me closer. “It’s not petty when our very existence is tied up in it.” He states.
He’s right. On some level, the bastard is right.
But tonight is not the night. Tonight was meant to be about clearing my head, sating my anger. Not unravelling more.
“Fuck off.” I mutter as I push past him.
He can think what he wants, it doesn’t bother me. I need to get back anyway. It’s a two-hour journey between here and the Palace. If I’m quick, I might be able to get a half-hours shut eye before my shift starts.
Pailtyn
Six days.
Six days I’m locked in there.
I’m left hanging for the first three, then they undo the shackles, but they keep me there anyway. Locked up in nothing but a shed. And wearing nothing but the torn pitiful remnants of my dress.
I free bleed. I have no choice. I also piss and shit myself because I have no other way of deleaing with it. By the time I’m let out, I’m as disgusting as they want me to feel.
I’m smeared in dried blood; I stink of sweat and shit and fear too. My hair is a mess of knots, and I have no idea how manyhours it would take of it being yanked and combed through to get it back to anything like what it was before.
I’m hosed down, just like before, then dumped back in my room. My old room.
I’ve realised that this space is meant to be a punishment too, only, I’m grateful for this. Does my husband really think that I’d miss being beside him? Miss listening to his snores, and his farts as he sleeps? Miss being woken up to him grunting and hurting me as he fucks me?
No, this solitude is a reprieve. This space is a sanctuary compared to that.
Kora brings me food. I can’t even lift my head to look at any of it. I don’t want to eat. Or drink. Or even breathe.
I want to die.
I want to lie here and waste away and maybe once I become a corpse, my husband will finally be happy with me.
A tear slips down my cheek at the thought and I’m too broken, too exhausted, too I don’t even know what, to bother to wipe it away.
I just lay here, staring at my hand, staring at the blackened flesh where my husband stamped on my fingers. How he didn’t break the bones I don’t know. I guess I should feel grateful for that. Should thank God for that small, little mercy.
Footsteps reach my ears. I tense, wondering if this is my husband come to delve out a new punishment or does he simply want a hole to fuck today?
“Look at her.” He growls. Not speaking to me, speaking to whoever is beside him. “I know you brought her up to be better than this. She’s an insult to your name, to her father’s name, to his bloodline.”
“Let me deal with it.” A woman says quietly.
He mutters back. Says something no doubt meant to shame me more, but I don’t hear the words. I only hear the sound of his feet, the way he stomps out.
And I hear the silence afterwards. I hear the sound of someone else breathing, someone else stood so close to me.
“Paitlyn?”
I don’t look up. I don’t move.
My head recognises the sound ofhervoice but it can’t be her. It can’t be. Maybe I’m insane now, maybe I really have lost my marbles.
“Paitlyn, sweetheart?” My mother crouches down, lifting my face enough to look at her.
