Page 73 of Degradation
He raises his arm, bringing it down on my side, and all those thorns catch as they tear into my skin.
I scream more, I sob, as he beats me. It feels like he’s torn all the skin off my back.
He sneers, taunting me, then hauls me up, drags me by my hair and forces me into what looks like a sarcophagus.
It’s made of metal. It’s big, but not big enough for me to stand in. On the bottom are spikes and as my feet scramble to get some footing, I realise any false move will result in impaling myself on them.
I hunch over, trying to use my hands to create some leverage.
He stares at me, laughs at my pathetic attempt to try to help myself and then he slowly starts to shut the front.
“No.” I scream, realising that he’s locking me in.
The metal slams with shut finality.
The sides of my new cage are bitterly cold, and it feels like I’m entombed. It feels like I’ll never get out of this hell.
It’s pitch black. There isn’t even a seam of light where the front meets the sides.
“You will stay in here.” The Priest says loud enough for me to hear his nasty little voice. “Jesus was entombed before he rose from the dead…”
It’s bullshit. I know it is. He’s twisting the words, twisting scripture to fit his needs.
“In three days’ time, we’ll see if you’re fit for decent society again.”
Three days? Three fucking days? I can barely take any more of this, and I’ve not even done ten minutes. How on earth am I going to manage three days?
I bite my tongue so hard. I chew the very end to keep the whimper in.
He wants to break me. Gunther wants to break me.
I know this will undoubtedly be the worst test of my strength to date but I will not give in. I will not. I’m a damn Founder. I’m better than him, better than all of them.
I clench my fists, burying my nails into my palms. I don’t care how much it hurts. I don’t care if I do go batshit crazy. I will not submit, I will not become the broken shell they want me to be.
Pailtyn
It hurts.
It hurts so much.
My legs shake with the effort of keeping my up. My feet keep slicing themselves open on those awful little spikes.
I slump against the sides as best I can, but I can feel the constant pang in my joints where I’m throwing my back out.
My skin is covered in both grime and sweat. All the little nicks where the Priest whipped me have now dried into tiny little scabs that I’m dying to scratch at.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. I don’t know if its hours, days, hell they could have locked me in for a year – only,I realise that can’t be the case because if I’d been there that long, I’d be dead, wouldn’t I? I’d need water, food.
I’d also be up to my knees in shit.
I snort, breathing in the stench of ammonia from where I pissed myself because I couldn’t hold it any longer. I doubt the Priest thought about that, did he? He was too busy being a sanctimonious piece of shit to think about basic human functions.
My stomach churns again, reminding me of the other thing I desperately need.
I don’t want to do it, but I also know that I won’t be able to hold out. Sweat is starting to collect along my forehead, my body feels like it’s heating up from the pressure.
I need to go. I need to relieve myself.
