SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

Sit.33: The Retaliating Fraid

When we were done, a little while later, the sun was rising ever higher; lighting even the one-windowed cabin until it was hot to dwell in. The door out front burst open, and The Chef stomped in holding a crate of turnips. Then he stopped, dead in his tracks, to see us entangled. Still half-sleeping, in her bed-sheets and in her darkened room. But instead of yelling, or screaming threats, or even raising his voice, he gave us a nod, and set down his crate.
"Bout time," he grunted, seeming proud of the both of us. "Better than that big lout, eh sweetheart?"
She took issue with that. "He's not BAD at SEX, father, he's just a miserable scum-fuck of a human being! How was I to know our New Lord would be such a CREATURE?"
I was embarrassed to say the least, and kept silent – lips pursed eyes wide. "Oh my god," I mumbled.
The Chef only laughed. "Because I warned you, a hundred times over. He was no better for me than he is for you, now. And you took it as a CHALLENGE, for God's sake... made me cry into my whiskey, night after night. Exactly as your mother would have." He sighed, and shook his head to ward off more tears. "But forget all that now, you're home again... still alive, and back to your senses. I've left your child with our nanny for a while, she's taking the week to get used to her for longer times. Do visit if you can, alright?"
The Mystic glowered her eyes, at him. "I'm not READY yet to be a mum, I'm not FIT for it. If anything should prove it to you, let be my past year's tragically perverse loving for PROOF... and your best example." She waited, then corrected herself. "Or, evidence, I should say."
"Ah, EXAMPLE," her father gleamed, almost losing his stance to inward chuckling. "Yes, do let me know, please, when you find one of those. Will you, Reaper? I trust not my daughter's eyes, and b'ight fear her black raven's hair all but beauty's blindfold to 'er."
I looked around, suddenly feeling dazed, in someone else's house. 'Who's bed is this?' Above me, and to my side, was a panel of sorts, with all kinds of switches and colors. And when I pressed upon it, all kinds of images and sounds played at me, dancing with more floating light like in my dreams. All seemed to compete for my gaze, demand my validation of their presence. Then at once they relented, and retreated back into their tiny caves, doored by rounded glass. Like the man himself, once crossed, thrice recounted. I asked myself, 'Why are there so many blinking lights...' I looked down at my lap, and I was eating some kind of... crunchy, grainy, colorful flakes, suspended in milk, in a bowl. The dish's make was finer and shinier than any clay I'd ever seen, yet it was duller of craft and positively boring to behold. Not a single scratch or line or speck of paint adorned its perfect, crystalline surface. I picked up the flakes with a metal spoon, equally boring and perfect, and put them in my mouth... it was sweet, and it was disgusting, and inedible. And it was addicting, and I wanted more and more for as long as I lived. And I wanted to die for them. Carriages buzzed outside, with no wheels or horses to pull them... or even ground on which to roll. I watched in the glass shields flat to my walls, amazed to see something flying without wings. Even the glass itself a marvel, transparent beyond my belief with not a single streak or stain – entirely unlike the glass of my own time, which made every cup and window look as foggy as a maritime morning. Then I watched the scene evaporate before me... and I was back where I was, in the old Scottish cabin.
I squinted and breathed through my mouth, wide and grimacing. "Why are you all talking like some kind of old play? Is this Shakespeare or something?"
The Mystic cocked her head. "Who?"
I paused. "The Bard of Avon. William? Troubadour King of the sixteenth- wait." I blinked. "It's thirteen-fifty... five, isn't it? The year?"
The Chef picked up a barrel of pickles with his bare, hair-knuckled hands, and brought it up to his shoulder to carry. "Certainly seems that way. Now, can ya getchyer sweaty asses outside, please? All's I can smell in here is your sexual airs, and my customers 'aven't ordered that flavor once yet – nor am I sellin' it." And then he left, leaving the door swung open, exposing us to the open air and letting out ours built up in steam. And I squinted toward the light, only for my gut to drop when stood before us was The Heathen – in full steel armor, cape of forest pine flapping in the whipping breeze. At once, I was alarmed, panicked, but my body failed to move – I was exhausted to paralysis. He stomped inside and grabbed The Mystic, and forced a night-gown over her head and down to her thighs, to cover her only modestly at best.
"We'll be LATE, my darling," he growled. Evidently, he was furious to see our plans contradicting his. He snarled at me, eyes brimming white with anger, and like a mountain he brought up his metal boot to shove into my guts. It thumped so hard it cracked the very bed upon which I was still stuck, by lover's dew. And I writhed in pain, groaning, reeling from the sheer brute force of his kick.
Then he snickered, satisfied. "Good, good to see myself on top again where I belong... and you finally getting the message. She's MINE, do you hear me? ALL MINE!!" He shouted this at me low, in my face, spittle dropping from his drunken-smelling, yellowed teeth. "And I'll have the lot of them, every man, woman and child in town, bedded by me in earnest before I let you lay a single sodden finger upon them, ever again. A noble such as myself is FIT to lead in all things, romance and sex especially, for ALL ages ever born. Yourself, look-" He took a breath to spit at my legs. "Your mulous kind, good only for hauling dirt and cutting grass, like a mediterranean slave on my father's vineyard. Back in Rome, a land of true nobles. And you're mediterre, are you not? So I hear? A Romani of Greek descent, among more? Filthy pigs, the lot of you. Even trying to steal our glorious name, and botching it on your wretched tongues." He was ranting now, and I was confused as to who he was even speaking to – me, or the perceived group of people I suddenly represented? "We're why you LOST your empire – we're why truth and superiority WON." Then, finished with his spectrous rambling, he took my Mystic by the arm and wrested her to the door outside.
"HELP ME!" she shouted. "I'M NOT GOING WITH YOU ANYWHERE, YOU SLOPPY BEAK!" She came loose, and he wrestled her in again. She cried, "I only wanted to be free of you, free of this rotting town, not to become your MISTRESS and your SLAVE!"
"Well isn't that funny," said he, "for The Mistress is exactly who we're going to see. So do be on your best behavior, love! We wouldn't want to embarrass ourselves for our guests."
She bit his hand, and he felt nothing. I watched, still broken in bed, as she struggled against him. The third lover I'd seen, fighting for their lives against a being of strength and impossible odds. Was this going to be a pattern for the rest of my life? Or would I not live long enough to see it?
He chattered on, "Besides, you're rather going to like being my 'slave', as you have been, I so proudly think – or have you no side of feeling for our last year intertwixt?" He held her chin to kiss her, and she faced away to give him cheek. He slapped her, loudly, and took her out of sight.
I got to my arms for support, and held up by myself in a struggle all my own. It was quite possibly the hardest hit I've ever taken in my life, but instead of feeling beaten, I was invigorated. It was enough jolting pain to get me on my feet, electric down to my very toes. And I was ALIVE again, revived in hardship. I rushed to redress, and hurriedly pulled my boots on so hard one of the straps almost broke. I ran outside first to look around for the villainous captor, then for my scythe. Instead, I found The Chef, lying on the ground unconscious, pickle barrel away, rolled a good few feet. The Heathen must have caught him unaware, and used his gauntlets to fake better strength. I hauled The Chef to his bed inside, dragging him through the door. Then I darted around to look for my scythe, which was by the fireplace. My hair trailed behind me as I did, in the wind of my own motion – I hadn't realized how long it was until its wavy curls were in my face. Using a rubber band I stole from a bundle of crated turnips, I tied it back into a ponytail. I was grateful to see an African product so far from its home... at least, I assumed that was its origin. Perhaps other peoples made rubber into bands, in places faraway I'd never known.