(Back to Mary's POV)
I awoke around six the next morning, got out of bed, and got dressed. I looked over at William who was still asleep wrapped tightly in the covers. Something about the way he looked didn't see right. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut as if her were in great pain, and he was muttering, talking worriedly in his sleep. As I continued to stare at him, William's muttering grew louder and more distinct.
"No…don't…leave her alone…leave Mother alone…she didn't do anything…. Father, please…"
I rushed over to William and shook him. He awoke, sweating and shaking, his eyes wide with fear.
"William what's wrong? What happened?" I asked, holding him to me.
William was silent for a moment as he sat in my embrace, resting his head on my chest, his body shaking almost violently.
"Mary, there's something that I didn't tell you about my past that I probably should have."
"What is it, William?" I asked softly.
"There was one other child in my family."
"But you said that you were the third of four sons. Why did you not tell me?"
"It was too painful."
"What was, William?"
"What I had to witness so may years ago; Mary, I've told you about my father and how he killed my mother; this memory is almost as horrid. In fact, it's probably worse now after all that has happened to us."
"Tell me William." I said softly, caressing his face with my right hand. "Tell me."
Part 2. More Memories(Told from William's POV)
My brothers and I had been sent home from the boarding school we attended for the holidays. I was nine at the time; my mother was eight months pregnant with what was to be her fifth child.
My father was supposed to meet my brothers and I the day we returned home for the holidays but he didn't come. Instead, Mother greeted us. I didn't need to ask why he wasn't there, for the answer was clearly reflected in my mother's eyes. My brothers saw this also, so to allow my mother rest and to ease her stress, we decided to play quietly inside, instead of going for a ride on the family estate like we had planned.
Later that day, Mother began to feel ill; she vomited a few times and didn't eat for the rest of the day.
That evening around ten, Father returned, well beyond drunk. I was going down the stairs to greet him when I tripped and crashed into him, knocking the bottle of brandy he held all over his front. My father seized me and boxed my ears. Then he cuffed me across the face, causing me to yelp.
My father proceeded to beat me for about two more minutes when my mother came to my rescue. I could see the look of horror in her eyes as she yelled at my father to stop beating me.
He stopped, a surprised look in his eyes, for my mother rarely raised her voice, especially to Father. But then, his surprise turned quickly to anger, and he turned on my mother and began to beat her. He punched her repeatedly in the stomach, causing her to cry out in pain and agony.
I tried to intervene, but my father shoved me hard, knocking me into the wall, and continued to beat her.
A pool of blood began to flow from my mother's body, staining her dress and the floor crimson.
My father noticed what he had done and released my mother, who crumpled to the floor, gasping and moaning in pain. Then, my father left the house again without a word.
I called my brothers down from their rooms. They all stared in horror at Mother who by this time, had passed out from blood loss. We carefully carried her into one of the spare rooms and laid her on the bed. Then Edward, my eldest brother, went to get a doctor.
Later after the examination, the doctor told us that Mother had miscarried a baby girl; she had lost a lot of blood and because of the damage she sustained, it was very likely that she would not be able to bear anymore children. My brothers and I were greatly saddened by this news. How would Mother be able to take it when she came around?
When the doctor inquired about the bruises she sustained on her belly and asked how she might have miscarried, my brothers looked at me. I was the only witness, so I told him what happened to him and showed him the bruises that my father had given me from beatings; the doctor became quite concerned and tried to move us all out of the house as soon as Mother came around and before Father returned.
Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough; Father came back just as my brothers and I were about to go upstairs and pack.
The first thing Father did when he arrived home and saw the doctor was question him harshly as to why he was at the estate. The doctor, though being smaller than my father, who was over six feet tall and well built, stood his ground and told my father the cause of his being here and boldly threatened to take us away from him because of the abuse.
Father's eyes shone brightly with anger, but he was surprisingly calm, and in the end, convinced the doctor that no sort of abuse had taken place and that he was greatly upset by the matters concerning Mother and the death of their unborn daughter. Of course, Father had a honeyed tongue, so it took not time to convince the doctor that he was mistaken about there being any abuse.
The doctor nodded and apologised, and left the estate.
As soon as the doctor left, Father turned on me, wrenching me painfully by the arm, but I did not cry out; I made no effort to struggle for I knew better than to try to defy Father.
Father hauled me out to the stables and grabbed a leather crop. Then, he ripped my vest and shirt off me and beat me savagely with the crop.
Over and over he beat me for about twenty minutes.
Every time the crop struck upon my flesh, I grew weaker; the pain beginning to blind my senses, but to show signs of weakness was to get myself even deeper into Hell.
After he was finished with me, Father shoved me into his prized stallion's stall and ordered me to stay there for the rest of the night. Then, Father stalked out of the stables.
I grabbed my torn white shirt and put it on, staining it red with my blood. Then, I put my vest on, curled into a ball in the fresh straw, and cursed my father before falling asleep in the stall, amazingly untouched my father's devil of a stallion, Shaitan.
From then on, I vowed never again to go to Father willingly for punishment, for I learned it was better to fight Father than to just give in to his beatings, even if it meant that they were more severe because of it. My dignity demanded a high price and I was willing to pay, for I would rather die than freely hand over my personal dignity.
I guess that determination never left me, for it still haunts me in battles and as you have seen, in my dreams.