The Phoenix-Book 1: Farforth Martyrdom

Chapter1-The Cobblestone Chanber

(I want to put a warning of the way events are described in this chapter. A lot of TP chapters will go into great detail about things like suicide, assault in many forms, death, etc. If you are a victim of sexual abuse, I don't suggest reading this, but if you want to, just know I advise your discretion. This will be a test chapter to see how you guys react, the rest will come out later. Enjoy)

My mum had lived on this ship all her life, through thick and thin, till she was 18 years of age. She had always told me stories of her time on the ship. She was always reluctant to tell them but did every time. I feel it was probably easier for her to get it out, so I listened closely.

She told this truly traumatic story, I think it's probably what shaped my love for dark literary fiction.

A young girl wakes up in a room of stone brick, and cobblestone flooring, the whole place is cold stone. There were three things inside that room, a wooden desk with a lamp on it, sleeping bags, 18, lay across the floor, and a bed in the corner where she lay. The contents of the room made zero sense to her, the contents of the room were stupid, she thought to herself.

One of the sleeping bags was empty, its owner sat at the desk, and the rest were filled by soldiers in red. The young man, was attractive and energetic, all despite the 3 am reading of the watch on his wrist. He stands, closing and finishing the big blue book in his hand. He walks over the the girl, my mother, handing her the book. "You're not sleeping with how long you've been out, so you can read this if you're one for reading, but I know you won't be able to sleep right now"

She found the man's words redundant, and obvious, but she thanked him for the book. She'd picked to sit bored after realizing he'd read entirely through a cooking book that was in French. She did not know French. She lay on her side watching the man as he climbed into his sleeping bed.

The thoughts that slammed inside her head, the emotions she felt, and the burning in her eyes. "Fall into place," She thinks, let's not show emotion. But she couldn't help but cry in that pitch-black room, alone in that bed.

She leaves through the window later that night, running through the wet grass, barefooted and hungry, her blonde hair flying through the wind, unwashed and tattered.

She'd made it to a train station after maybe a mile of sprinting. Her lungs burned, her joints hurt, and she felt weak, but she scrambled to the bench of the stop nonetheless.

After regaining her composure, Mum is alerted by a footstep behind her, then a silhouette pinning her to the bench. In the dread of rain and dead of night, she's being bruised. "Don't move, don't scream, don't struggle, and this all goes smoothly" says some deep, raspy voice, something unfamiliar. He lifts the skirt of her dress, his hand covering her mouth in a dark leather glove. He lifts her skirt, and-. I don't have to paint a fucking picture.

I remember I'd want to cry every time she told this part.

She sits curled up on that bench, crying, raspy whining until the morning when the first 8 am train pulls into the stop. Dripping wet from the previous night's rain, and horizontal tears covering her cheek as she sits up, she stumbles onto the train. She'd sat there staring at the floor for nearly 4 hours from DamiansTown to Burroughsville, she was so zoned out she had to be asked to leave not realizing they'd pulled into her stop.

She gains her composure, despite the image of her skin, bruised and wet. She fixed the wrinkles removed the strap of her dress and realized her sun hat, then she-cat walked through the street, rubbing off whatever ruined makeup she was wearing.

She felt the pressure again as the eye followed her through the streets, concerned looms lingered. She was stopped and pulled aside by two men to an alley. One was older and dressed as a tailor, the second was young, with a gun over his shoulder. The older man asked, "Are you okay, young lady? You seem mistreated horribly, did something happen?" She keeps her composure. "No sir, I'm just a bit tired is all" The young man watched attentively, seeming almost scared of the interaction, unable to hold eye contact with her" The older man brought the woman aside. "If someone hurt you, I would like to know, I can help you, but I need to know what happened. My mum didn't cry again, but she couldn't keep herself from tearing up as the man asked.

She said the man invited her to his and the younger man's home, and they all sat for coffee. Tension stayed between the young man and my mum as the older man and my mother kept talking. "I'm Phillipe, this is Stephan, he's my apprentice, I'm a blacksmith and a tailor." My mom introduces herself, "I'm Dianne Welles" and the conversation lasts forever.

She says she admitted having been sexually assaulted, but she always regretted it. She claimed Phil reported the incident to the police in the area. semen stains were found on a man's pants who help a glove matching the leather ones Dianne described, he'd dropped one unknowingly while leaving the crime scene.

My mom improved mentally despite the incident, it overall didn't affect her as much as you'd assume something of the sort would affect a woman. I remember she and my dad would argue about it sometimes, he'd say she probably enjoyed it, and that she didn't find it too traumatic. And she'd argue back saying that she just got better with him there to keep her mind distracted.

And yes, he was there, my dad's name is Stephan Phoenix. Overall, I remember my parent's relationship always revolving around arguments on these days. But you and I both know why the tension was so high between my mum and dad when they first met, the two lovebirds had a thing for one another.

And for the record, I'm my mom's son, but Stephan wasn't my biological father, guess who was?