Tears blur my vision, hot and relentless. The whip falls again and again, each strike loosening something inside me, unraveling me piece by piece.
“I hate it. I hate myself. I hateeverythingabout myself. I?—”
My voice breaks entirely, collapsing into sobs as the whip slips from my hand. I don’t know how many strikes I’ve endured. I don’tfeelthem physically as much as I feel them seared in my soul.
“Ah, such a good boy. Tell me more,” she purrs.
“My mother… she should… kill me… once and for all…”
My body gives out from beneath me. My knees hit the ground as I start trembling uncontrollably. “Stop…” I gulp down. “Please stop this. I can’t… I can’t do this anymore,” I beg, my voice raw, desperate. “Please. Make me stop, Makeitstop…”
She laughs. Blood and tears fall to the ground, dripping to the floor, yet the only echo in the room is that of her laughter.
It starts softly, almost amused, but then it grows into something sharp, something cruel that cuts deeper than the whip ever did.
Suddenly, her hand cups my face, tilting it upward.
I’m too weak to resist or protest.
Her gloved fingers brush beneath my eyes, collecting the tears spilling on my cheeks.
“Pathetic,” she murmurs.
She studies the moisture on her fingertip for a moment, then lifts it to her mouth and licks it clean. It’s a slow and deliberate movement. Her attention is focused on me; on the way my knees wobble, my body so close to collapse.
A faint shudder runs through her before it turns into a full-body laughter.
“I love the taste of your torment,” she whispers.
“Why—”
“That face, right there.” She chuckles. “You look so pathetic, Nykander. Why don’t you beg me some more? Who knows, I might take pity on you.”
I nod fervently. I crawl toward her, grabbing onto the material of her skirt.
“Please…” I whisper again, though I no longer know what I’m asking for.
She watches me, disinterested, and then exhales a quiet sigh.
“I’m bored.”
The words land with a hollow finality.
“What?”
“Boring.Youare so boring. Always the same begging, the same theatrics. Why can’t you come up with something new?” She clicks her tongue against her teeth and shakes her head.
“I don’t understa?—”
“Let’s try something different, shall we?”
I frown in confusion, not understanding what she means. But then I freeze. My breath catches as my vision warps.
Her red gown—no, it’s not a gown; not anymore. Something about it shifts. The fabric darkens, thickens, clinging to her body in a way that feels wrong.
Wet.
It drips slowly, melting into the floor.
