Crawford believed in control. He believed he had absolute control over his own body. The dark fear that threatened to engulf him whole was, unfortunately, not a product of his own body in the normal sense. Hertz controlled the chemicals in his brain, forcing wave upon wave of panicky terror on the eighteen year old.
Crawford stood in front of the leather-inlaid desk. Hertz sat behind it, taking a quill pen from and inkpot and sucking on the end.
"They call me a sadist," he told Crawford, "and they don't lie." He waved at the desk. Bradley's stomach turned. Human leather, blood ink, bone pen, skull lamp… "I have killed more people than you've met," Hertz sneered. "These are disloyal students. How does this make you feel?"
"If anyone knows, it's you," Crawford told him stolidly. "You are so powerful my nervousness must be nigh on overwhelming."
"Flattery will get you everywhere." Hertz waved a hand. "Absolutely everywhere," he chuckled.
Crawford rested on the balls of his feet, hands tucked into the small of his back. He could probably kill this man with ease if it came to it, but he would forfeit his own life. If he played it right, he shouldn't receive a worse beating than the ones his father used to deliver.
Hertz leant backwards and plucked a stick from a dark corner. Femur, Crawford's anatomy knowledge kicked in, polished to a yellow shine. Set in the top was a glass bulb containing a single eye. Next to it was a whip made from strips of human flesh. Attached to the end of each strip in a thong was a heavy stone. A Cat 'o nine tails with stones rather than notes and flesh rather than rope. Hertz plucked this from the corner as well and offered the two to Crawford.
"Pick one," Hertz watched Crawford. "I have a whimsical side, so you get to pick what you're beaten with. Stick or stones?"
Crawford considered. The stick would break bones and bruise terribly, but the whips were more likely to draw blood and leave welts across his back. Either way, he wouldn't sleep on his back for a long time.
~~~ golf club pain hitting pain golf club revenge pain back shoulders face golf club… ~~~
The vision faded out. Bradley frowned. That was a long way off. Orange hair fluttered around the edges of his vision. Surely not… Well, it was a long way off.
"How many hits?" Crawford asked as politely as he could.
"You are weighing this up carefully, aren't you? Let me put you out of your misery. I'm going to beat you with both."
"I am to pick which comes first?" Hertz nodded lazily, fondling the bone stick. "Stick, please." Bradley swallowed, his heart in his throat. His father had beaten him with his stick more than once, and taken off his belt to him several times, but this was likely to exceed any 'second place' beating.
"Take off your shirt and trousers." Bradley complied. "Lie face down on the desk." Bradley pressed his face to the skins of his fellow pupils, focusing on the blood ingrained in the leather. He lay there for several minutes, getting cold.
Crack!
Bradley screamed against his will. The stick had hit the small of his back. It came down again, slamming into his pelvis. Then his neck. His shoulder blades, one after the other. Small of his back again.
Each time, Bradley screamed. His fingers dug crescents in the tender leather of the desk, his feet beat the wall. The stick came down on the back of his legs and he heard a bone break. He whimpered into the desk.
"Silence!" Hertz roared.
Bradley bit the desk. The taste made him gag, and the mere thought of what he was doing would make him sick for many nights to come. He chewed on the leather as the stick slammed into his pelvis again. Tears soaked the desk as he clung to the sides of wood and trembled.
He was ten again. He'd come second in the 500m against the sixth graders. He'd been so proud; until his father pointed out he hadn't come first. They'd left immediately, and in the back of the chauffer driven Mercedes Bradley Crawford Senior had beaten him for losing. Then he'd beaten his for protesting. And then he'd beaten him for soaking the white leather in blood. Bradley Junior had ended up in hospital. They blamed it on the chauffer, and had the innocent man deported.
"Roll over." Bradley raised tear-filled golden brown eyes to stare at his nemesis. "Roll over," Hertz repeated, patience wearing thin.
Carefully, slowly, tenderly, Bradley forced is aching body onto it's back, noticing that his right leg was definitely broken and his back would never be the same again. Hertz picked up the whip.
As the stones slammed into his abdomen and below, Bradley passed out without a sound.
Even shorter chapter. I just really didn't want to write any more Brad torture. Well, not physical, anyway. Next we get the psychological damage…
