Condemned

31 | Sam

I'm lying on my cot like a piece of tenderized meat that Prue intends to pickle and fry to a crispy death and serve for dinner. Sad to say, this doesn't seem so far-fetched. And it's hard to decide which is worse: the pain or humiliation.

Don't get me wrong, the throbbing is so severe, I'm not sure I'll ever walk again. Admittedly, I'm familiar with both. My stepfather has always been on this indecency vendetta, and I've been through some trauma, both in private and in front of hundreds of people. Still, this humiliation is at an all-time high or a debilitating low, depending on your perspective, and it somehow still rivals an agony that is unbearable.

Why did I trust him for even a moment? This could have been his "master plan" all along. Even if it wasn't, he's familiar with the same Prue that I am, and I'm sure he's not surprised.

Then, she began...

The spiked rod was actually the lesser of two evils, at least in the short term. Her one hand was pressing my face into the mattress. And condensed, where the sun has no right to shine, unless you're a filthy, devious little whore, I received my other punishment. Surely, on camera, for Ishmael's very own home collection.

I was willing to give you my body. My virginity. My soul if it would set me free for a time. And this is what I get in return? 

I don't know how many times Prue hit me with that thing, or if I stayed conscious the whole time, and what may have caused a break from reality—asphyxiation, bodily trauma, or mental dissociation. By the time she left, I was floating around in this blurry, shaky state of awareness, worried that if I moved, she'd come back, or I'd break in two.

Is this what he had in mind for me? Why didn't he just save himself all the trouble and beat me himself?

You fucking coward...

It could be minutes or hours that go by. I lose the ability to keep track or dig out any reason to care.

I'm about to check out, the only coping mechanism I have to offer myself. My attempt, however, is interrupted by a swish.

Something white slips beneath my door. It doesn't quite puncture my train of thought—just kill me now—but it puts a little dent in it. I find myself wiggling my toes and checking my ankles.

If I don't pass this first test, it doesn't matter what it is. I won't be able to get there.

Using my thigh muscles to bend my knees, it doesn't go well, but it goes. The bones and joints, from there and below, are responding to the stimuli.

Whatever. I call the test done before I should and slither from bed with my upper arm strength. I intend to figure out the rest along the way.

I have the envelope in hand before I know anything for sure. I won't put myself through any other trials unless I know what it says.   

I flip it over. The envelope itself has writing on it:

The power is out. Everything will be reset momentarily. You have about five minutes where you're not on camera. Go to the bathroom. Read this carefully. Tear it up and flush everything down the toilet once you've committed the steps to memory.

I guess I have to get up, and quickly at that. I've probably wasted three minutes just getting here.

I'm an athlete, I remind myself, preparing myself, with my arms, to get my wounded ass off the floor. I've been kicked, punched, slapped, dropped, over-extended, overworked, belittled. . .