A/N: Somewhat old fic, uploaded now because I want everything on one site. Sorry if it's not top quality. :)
I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets
Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets
I've been raising up my hands, drive another nail in
Just what God needs, one more victim
- Tori Amos, "Crucify"
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My knees were burning from being dragged across the granite floors, and I had a feeling that they were bleeding. My head was spinning.
Why can't they just speak some language I understand, dammit! This singing nonsense... It's like Babel... But God was being just at Babel, He isn't being just now, isn't helping me now, why - Oh, no. Lord God, forgive me, I tried to resist, but he was too strong for me - I didn't mean to sin, please Lord, have mercy on me, save me!
I was being thrown down on the floor for the umpteenth time; it was getting repetitive. A jolt of pain through my shins and knees told me they would bruise again. I was too tired to get up, so I remained crouched on all fours. My spine was still aching from where the rod had hit it.
Libera me, mi Domine, I painted for You! Is this Your will, that I die now? Help your servant, please, now, God…
The brothel owner grabbed my hair and roughly yanked my head back, and pain shot through my scalp. This barely had time to register, however, when he smacked me over the face with his heavy hand, causing me to bite down on my tongue.
Twisting my head away and ignoring the pain it caused as his grip on my hair got tighter, I spat blood onto the floor, choking and cursing him in what languages I knew - which was one, really, and one he spoke not a word of (did I even speak it?).
He got the message, roaring something in that singing language, something I later came to understand as meaning,
"Oh, you do speak, do you, you little devil?"
With the last word, the next blow was aimed directly at the back of my head, and I toppled sideways because I had no balance left whatsoever, and before I could catch myself I'd cracked my head against the rough, damp stone walls, and the last thing I remember is the sickly feeling of what I knew was hot blood trickling down my neck.
"Remember this the next time you feel like crossing your legs, you illiterate gutter imp!"
Remember, and fear to transgress. Head wounds could be dangerous. Maybe I would die.
The darkness came up around me like the black earth in which I somehow felt I belonged; soft and welcoming, and then everything trickled away. Indolentia. I would have painlessness, for the time being.
When I next woke up, it was to the sight of a radiant, beautiful man with warm eyes and a mild face, and luxurious, gorgeous clothes. He smiled at me, full of sympathy, and opened his arms.