Lieumon Week, Day 4: Red
"Amon, I can't do this."
He still presses it into my hands. "I need you to do it. You have to. Please."
"I can't. I can't."
He takes my nerveless hands and wraps them around the whip. His fingers hold mine against the leather of the handle. "There isn't anyone else who can do this for me."
My mind is screaming for me to refuse, to back away, to run. But there is no way I can leave him now. "If you loved me, you wouldn't ask me to do this."
"I'm asking because I love you. I'm asking because you love me."
He stares into my eyes for a long moment, and I'm the one to look away first. I can't read those blue eyes. Or perhaps I'm just afraid to. He presses my hands against the lips of his mask before dropping them and stepping away. He turns and drops to his knees, his head bowed. I can see the old, pale scars scattered over his skin. He knows, he knows that just that reminder of past injuries makes me wish I could have been there to protect him and now this-
As I run my hands through the leather straps, I can feel bits of metal knotted into the thongs. I shudder. Surreptitiously, I do my best to work them free, but they're tied too securely. When Amon turns his head to look at me, I drop them. The handle sits heavily in my hand as I step up behind him. He's silent as I prepare myself. I try to distance myself as I raise my arm and swing. The hiss of the whip makes me wince, but he barely moves. Red lines immediately spring up across his back, but it takes a moment for the blood to well over.
"Harder," he whispers.
I want to close my eyes. I don't want to see what I'm doing to him. But if I don't look, I might hurt him even worse. I swing again, and even though I try to believe it's only my imagination, it's like I can feel the metal biting into his skin. He gasps, bracing himself against the floor. The individual trails of blood are all running together now. My breath is coming too fast. My nails are biting into my palm."
"Again."
"Amon-"
"Again."
I have to take a minute to ready myself. When I switch the whip to my other hand, I realize that I am shaking. He kneels in front of me, leaning forward. Waiting. There are bloodstains on the floorboards. It is all I can do to swing. This time, he crumples forward, crying out. I can take no more. I drop the whip, diving to my knees before him. I pull him to me. He huddles there, hardly moving as I press his head to my chest. When I put my arms carefully around him, I can feel the blood soaking into my shirt. I hardly know where to put my hands, but I cannot let him go. I'm whispering to him- I hardly know what. I tell him I love him, over and over. He leans against me, breathing shallowly and not saying a word, but I can feel the tension slowly drain out of him.
Finally he speaks.
"Thank you."