𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘴, 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘓𝘪𝘦𝘴

The Torture (part 2)

"Next." Father barks.

Another man in black steps up to Wymond. He picks up a bucket full of water and places it front of him. Roughly he grabs the back of my beaten lovers shirt and thrusts his face up so he is kneeling and is turned towards the water. The man turns his face to mine and gives me a snarling grin. I breath a sharp breath as our eyes meet and I quickly look away to find Wymonds eyes. I am met with the same hopeless picture. This needs to stop.

I keep thinking that. This needs to stop. This needs to stop... what am I doing about it? What can I do? This needs to stop.

"No." I scream as loud as I can. My eyes flicking back to the man with the dogs grin. "Take me. Take me."

"Shut up you stupid girl." Father bellows.

"Take me." I yell at him. "Take me."

Our eyes meet for a flash of a moment before he turns to the Torturer who nods at him and grips Wymond harder. I watch as his face is thrown underwater. I cry out and struggle against the chains and the hands that are holding me back. I see his hands flexing. I know he is trying to remain conscious. Still I scream for them to take me.

After what feels like too long, the man forcefully removes Wymonds head from the bucket. His hair is soaked. The blood is beading off his chin and running down his throat. I call out his name. Now I realize my own face wet - with tears. No. Stop, I tell myself. Stop. Stay strong for him. I stifle my sobs and look at his eyes. He breathes heavily but he is here still. He is still here. He is still here.

"I am so sorry." I whisper. He hears though. "I am so sorry. I love you, Wymond. I lo- NO."

The man has pushed his head back into the water. He looks at me again. The same snarling grin. There is fire behind his eyes - the fire of hurting people. All I feel is hate now. Hate for these people who spend their days torturing rebels. Hate for the town I was born in. Hate for the family I was bought up in. Hate for my own Father. Hate. Hate...

Wymonds body has begun to shake now.

"Stop." I scream. "Let him breathe. Stop."

The man drags his head out and it lolls to one side.

"No." I wail. "Wymond." I am in blind panic. I know I need to calm down. My breathing is uneven and I know I need to focus. Focus. I tell myself to focus. Focus.

When I do, I see he is still breathing. Shallow breaths. But breathing.

"Wymond." Whimper.

"Next." Fathers voice comes from behind me. To my right, a third man moves forward.

"Stop." I cry. "Stop. He's half dead."

"Do you want to see half dead?" Father appears to my left. "Do you?"

I shake my head, my eyebrows furrowing, tears falling.

"Well... you will." He murmurs, slowly and softly as if he is speaking to a young child.

My heart contracts. My head whirls. Nausea rises through me. I force my head to turn and look at the third Torturer. The third tool: a long thin piece of metal is held in his gloved hand. A fire is burning a short distance from him and the man turns towards it, holding his arm out. The metal rod burns orange as it is held over the flame. Turning back to the now wet Hunter, the man slowly lowers the rod until it is just half a foot from Wymonds bare skin of his upper arm. I take a shaky breath in as I know what is about to happen. I look to the hazel eyes that I love. They are barely open. Suddenly they squeeze shut and I hear the sizzle of water. He cry's out and I turn my face away, from him. Immediately I feel guilty and force myself to watch. The man lifts the metal off his skin and I see the raw boils underneath. He moves his free hand to Wymonds wrist and, moving the chains to make room, he lowers the scolding metal onto the already red and cut skin. Wymond howls. Howls and howls. The rod is removed and there is hardly time to blink before the other wrist is burnt.

I just stand in silence as my husband is tortured. Silence. That is all I do as the man goes to the fire and heats the rod again. Silence. The metal burns bright - more of it this time - more of it to hurt more skin. Swiftly, the Torturer strides to his victim. Lifting the ragged shirt, revealing his sore back, the mans instrument meets its mark. He holds it there for some time. As the moments tick by, Wymond shrieks and shrieks.

***

It seems like forever until Father gets bored. I have lost count on how many times the metal was heated and bought onto his back. Heated and screams. Heated and screams...

"That is all for today." Father tells the group of men. Turning to the people holding me, he says, "take them to the special cell."

With that, he marches out of the courtyard, the door swinging shut behind him. I am pulled forward and taken towards a door near where I came out. I look back to Wymond and see him being pulled along the stone, leaving a bloody smear in his wake.

Someone forces my head to look ahead of me. I see stone steps leading downwards into darkness. It is almost a welcome sight before I remember what Father said before he left. The special cell. What is that?

I almost slip as I place my foot on the first step. As I make my way downwards, I feel the cold make its way through my clothes; through the wool of my jacket. Suddenly, I am forced to stop and from above, someone rushes downwards with a flame. It lights up the cell: nothing special. In fact there is nothing. Just a few rings on the walls and more chains. Rings and chains...

I am thrust to the far corner of the cell, in line with the door; big enough diagonally for two people to lie down and not touch. My right hand is connected to the ring by the chains. The man forces me to sit and my hand is inline with my head. I can already feel the blood draining from my fingers...

Then I hear more footsteps and the men retreat to the steps. I see a hunched figure being carried by four others. Roughly, Wymond is thrown in the corner on the opposite side of the cell. His right hand is limp as one man attaches it to the ring. Once that is done, all the men leave, closing a squeaky barred door at the bottom of the steps and turning the key in its lock. No escape. No escape.