AN: Um...Sorry about the title, my mom got me a pillow shaped like lips, and I got to thinking...
Without a clock, how could I know how long it had been? Only the tap-tap-tapping of the guards steps past my cell and the growing of my own belly to accommodate the life within reminded me of the passing time. From what I remember from carrying Daan, I must be around six months gone. Six months. Half a year of the most excruciating agony ever known to anyone who has loved. I need to know something, I need to be able to hear my brother's name coming from the lips of another person, I need to hear someone else whisper it, other than me. Even news of his death would be more comforting now than not knowing. Death brings finality. Death is simply another place, easily accessed, a place I can (and will) go at any time I feel the need (what Riff doesn't and will never know of is that kitchen knife, from what seems like ages ago, still in my possession, hidden in the mattress among my multitude of letters).
I hear, as I have heard over and over again for the past day, and a hundred days before that, footsteps. This time though, there's a difference in the weight, in the rhythm of the steps. I had learned to recognize each of the guards by the pattern in which they walked, and this one was...new. In a primal instinct, I scurried to the farthest, darkest corner of the cell, prepared to bite and scream like a beast-woman (I'm sorry, I've always wanted to use the term "like a beast-woman" in one of my stories) if they even tried to drag me off as they did Riff. I heard a key in the padlock and to door swung open, revealing a grotesquely fat man, with two, red, pudgy fists balled up together in front of his lardy stomach.
A few cautious steps and the ugly man had entered the room, a few more and he was upon me (not LITERALLY, you pervs!), his meaty hands resting on my head.
"She'll do, close the door please."
Once again the door clanked shut, and he spoke again, this time in a low, throaty and primitive growl.
"I'm gonna fuck you now, bitch, and if you even so much as close your legs before I leave this room, I'll find a way to strip your brother of his honors, and send him back to war without letting you see him. Didn't know he was there, did you? I knew, but wouldn't let them throw him back down...you've been kept relatively "fresh" for the last five months, and I wanted things to stay that way...for the moment, that is."
The fact that I was going to be raped--again, only occurred to me after a prolonged felling of exultation. Honors? What could my brother had done to receive honors? Not dwelling on that puzzle, I pictured him just floors above me, reclining on one of the plush pillows to be found in the guest apartments, thinking--I'm sure, of me.
Bringing my mind back to the events at hand, my heart was constricted in fear not at the though of violation, but from thinking what Riff would do, dear, dear Riff, when he found out, and-god forbid-if he suspected me?
Without a clock, how could I know how long it had been? Only the tap-tap-tapping of the guards steps past my cell and the growing of my own belly to accommodate the life within reminded me of the passing time. From what I remember from carrying Daan, I must be around six months gone. Six months. Half a year of the most excruciating agony ever known to anyone who has loved. I need to know something, I need to be able to hear my brother's name coming from the lips of another person, I need to hear someone else whisper it, other than me. Even news of his death would be more comforting now than not knowing. Death brings finality. Death is simply another place, easily accessed, a place I can (and will) go at any time I feel the need (what Riff doesn't and will never know of is that kitchen knife, from what seems like ages ago, still in my possession, hidden in the mattress among my multitude of letters).
I hear, as I have heard over and over again for the past day, and a hundred days before that, footsteps. This time though, there's a difference in the weight, in the rhythm of the steps. I had learned to recognize each of the guards by the pattern in which they walked, and this one was...new. In a primal instinct, I scurried to the farthest, darkest corner of the cell, prepared to bite and scream like a beast-woman (I'm sorry, I've always wanted to use the term "like a beast-woman" in one of my stories) if they even tried to drag me off as they did Riff. I heard a key in the padlock and to door swung open, revealing a grotesquely fat man, with two, red, pudgy fists balled up together in front of his lardy stomach.
A few cautious steps and the ugly man had entered the room, a few more and he was upon me (not LITERALLY, you pervs!), his meaty hands resting on my head.
"She'll do, close the door please."
Once again the door clanked shut, and he spoke again, this time in a low, throaty and primitive growl.
"I'm gonna fuck you now, bitch, and if you even so much as close your legs before I leave this room, I'll find a way to strip your brother of his honors, and send him back to war without letting you see him. Didn't know he was there, did you? I knew, but wouldn't let them throw him back down...you've been kept relatively "fresh" for the last five months, and I wanted things to stay that way...for the moment, that is."
The fact that I was going to be raped--again, only occurred to me after a prolonged felling of exultation. Honors? What could my brother had done to receive honors? Not dwelling on that puzzle, I pictured him just floors above me, reclining on one of the plush pillows to be found in the guest apartments, thinking--I'm sure, of me.
Bringing my mind back to the events at hand, my heart was constricted in fear not at the though of violation, but from thinking what Riff would do, dear, dear Riff, when he found out, and-god forbid-if he suspected me?