Please have mercy

Persecution

She had asked the small robot to lock the doors from the inside, his little screw arm twisting in the panel near the door, creating a password made of spinning circles in the strange keyhole before he had put itself on sleeping mode in the corner of the room. She had refused to see anyone.

She knew she was obligated to sleep in his quarters, as the contract had stated, but he had not bothered respecting those rules, she drew the conclusion that she didn't need to either. Staying locked in the room, turning over the events in her head until the memory of it became unbearable. She tried to find where she had made a mistake, what she had done wrong, finding nothing.

She'd been raped, perhaps he didn't know of the term, used to taking whatever he wants, but the reality of it clung to her like a second skin. She was disgusted, and she couldn't take it back. She felt lost, inconsolable, empty, and yet, heavy with the burden of her own future.

He had managed to change the way she perceived herself. Not a wife, not a sex slave, not an object, but a distraction. A means to an end , as he had put it.

She forced herself not to hate him, that would make it insufferable. She could simply not live with a man she hated, see him every day, give him children, fake a smile as her skin turned purple from his hands. She had no desire to accuse herself, she had done everything he had asked of her. It was easier to blame those who weren't there. The temple had practically sold her, forcing her into this position. She was having the same thoughts as on her wedding day, feeling the same hatred towards her homeworld, the place that had pushed her out with encouragement and wouldn't accept her again. They had given her false hope. She had been exchanged from one group to another, there was never any freedom in her decisions. Was her life worth so little?

It was their fault, she decided. It had been theirs the moment they accepted the deal, the moment they'd agreed to send her here, the moment they had lied to her, telling her it would all be well.

She was glad she had left.

No.

It was his voice speaking again, taking over her thoughts. He had ordered her to leave the temple behind and her body was following that command wanting to get away from the pain. The temple had no other choice, Coruscant was prioritizing the safety of many over the one of a single bride. He, on the other hand, had all the choices in the world. He could've stopped, he could've at least tried to be affected by her screams.

She hated what she had become, a vessel of pain and guilt, a girl who kept on dreaming of a better life, some dumb optimistic child that kept on thinking he could change, a cheerful bride that had convinced herself her husband could be kind based on one simple interaction that had not involved brutality.

She longed for him to be sympathetic. Being cast aside and regarded as nothing but a well of information on the enemies he abhorred was not how she had pictured her role here. All of this should've made her loath him, but she couldn't bring herself to feel such a way. Resentment was not a thing that was prized as a priestess, she had rarely needed to rely on those emotions, her positive mindset etched her to meditate and seek him out to ask for his blessings. He'd accept her if she came to him, she supposed, she could try again.

The idea of it made her nervous, she did not want to run after him she wanted to run away from him. She was unbalanced, confused, adrift. She was going mad.

She had washed the dried blood with a rag, doing what she could with the wounds. She couldn't recognize her reflection in the small mirror, her face bruised and beaten, her skin turning blue and yellow from the ecchymosis. Her stomach made her feel sick, red welts appearing where the electrostaff had hit her forming lines under her skin that resembled lightning. If there was ever a chance that she had been with child – which was highly unlikely – the pregnancy was well terminated. Her nose had stopped bleeding since, still making it hard to breathe properly, her legs felt unsteady, her muscles cramping where she had overstretched them, the underside of her knees marked with the shape of fingers. She did not even want to look at her wrists. Every movement was a strain, her body yelling against her will as she grazed over the markings, checking for broken bones or dislocated joints.