Chapter 4
Near three weeks had passed since I had come first. The first day after my branding, I had stared at myself in the mirror. The angry red burn still alive on my skin.
I had shuddered, and not examined it again.
It had been clear to me since my first day of what I was here. I was not a person, I was a pet. I was to do as told, act as told. I was to be "feminine"
As always, I had a few issues with being "feminine"
I now stood in front of a long mirror, examining the whip scars and lash marks littering my body. Beads of red had leaked from the more recent cuts.
Several times my new "master" had been kind to me, stopped a beating early, given me extra food, he even gave me some books to read and a journal to write in. But every time I felt myself beginning to like him more, i ran my hand across my hip. the puckered form of a lovely rose was a constant reminder of why my father was the last man I could ever trust in this world. No matter how lovely the face, how silver the tongue, the serpent beneath would always rise.
You could say I was biased, and you'd be correct. You could say I was justified, and you'd be correct. You could say I was a fool for continuing to resist, despite punishments, and you'd be correct.
I'd argued this point many a time with myself, standing naked in front of the mirror and staring at my paling skin, sunken sleep deprived eyes.
Sleep was not my friend anymore. No more did my unconscious mind show me images of what the world would be like with women equal to men, no longer did I see myself winning fights and proving to the world the capabilities of females, never again did my dreams show me childish visions of love and life.
No, dreams no longer came to me. for me, nights were occupied by hate, by loathing. I would look at myself and curse myself for every tear I shed while the whip lashed across my skin, every sound I made when someone hit me to the floor, every time i did not get back up after falling.
After this, my eyes would close. I would waver ten fall into the black pit that was sleep.
There was only ever one image that visited me in this dark abyss. My mother, standing over me with a cold hand touching my own comfortingly, with blood seeping from her head and running down her face and maring her lovely features. My father his hand touching my face while his expression was contorted in his final pain, his skin cold as ice and a hole blasted through his forehead.
No. Sleep was not my friend, and my image payed the price. My features had drooped, face aging, black pits forming under my eyes.
The hopelessness was beginning to show.
I had always heard that many men, when a woman was "broken", would turn their woman into common house slaves and move on to the next, whether through black market slave trade or legal buy and sell.
Looking at myself, I was beginning to look broken.
I scowled. I glared daggers into my own eyes. What was wrong with me? A few weeks and I look like a zombie.
No. I was not going down that easy.
There was a loud crash and my fist came away from the mirror bloody. Splinters shot through my fist and shards buried themselves inside my hand.
My shattered reflection stared back, blood splattering her face, cracks forming over her, one eye visible in the shattered pieces, the other vanished behind the black metal stand that held the mirror.
I sat being stubbornly silent while the doctor worked on my hand. They gave me no pain killers, simply dragged the shards out one by one.
The man scowled at this tedious busy work, greying hair wrinkling and appearing to fall out of his receding hairline before my eyes. I smirked.
He stitched the cuts, slower then he probably had to, and wrapped my wrist.
"Stupid woman," he growled, "can't even control her own body."
I pointedly tripped him.
He turned and glowered at me with a hate I had rarely seen.
"Oh, I'm sorry." I smiled sweetly, "I'm just a woman. I can't even control my own body."
He turned again, muttering curses, and I tripped him as he stumbled out the door.
"Leave the doctor alone Victoria." My "master" said. I had later found he preferred me to call him "sir" or "Mr. Belrose".
"Suck my balls."
His eye twitched, "excuse me?"
"Oops, my bad. Suck my balls sir."
He glared.
"Now, now," I tutted, "no need to get jealous because your 'property' has more of them then you do." I smirked at him.
He advanced and caught me roughly by the hair, shoving me down and wrenching my head up to meet his eyes, he growled, "you never learn."
I snarled, "hard to learn when you're being taught by a broken record."
He threw me harshly against the ground. I was convinced his hand came away with half my scalp in tow.
He kicked me roughly in the ribs before stalking out of my room.
Once I had my breath back I lifted myself heavily, one hand clutching my ribs. I felt a perverse satisfaction come over me, and it numbed the pain better than any drug would have.
My smirk was immobile. My smug satisfaction evident on my face.
I had removed his mask. He had hit me out of anger.
So much for strong willed men.
Hey guys!
Just gonna say this now, the views expressed throughout this story ARE NOT my own! I personally have nothing against either gender! Just saying!
So short chapter, but an important one to me (totally not because I made it too short and brought the ending to it too fast and couldn't continue it without it being like 20 pages long).
As always, Review!
Love you all!
~HellanTroy