Our Tainted Dream

One: An Innocent Child

A leather belt, A steel spine.

Snap,

I flinch. The leather belt hits my body hard, tearing my skin and sending echoes throughout the damp basement air. I could taste the dust at the back of my throat, the iron taste of blood on my tongue.

A single light bulb dangles above our heads, dim but enough to let us see, enough to let me know when the second strike comes.

Red puddles at my knees, and it warms the skin of my palms as I brush through it, soft splishing sounds greeting my ears as it coats my fingers and hand, trapped underneath my nails.

I drag it up, to the criss cross at my wrist, where the dusty blood mixes with the open wound.

The skin from my wrist is mangled from the cuffs and chains, bleeding a beautiful red. Fingers trembling from hunger and the lack of blood. My kneeling position gives him full access to my spine, leather belt brushing against the damaged skin.

The whip itself doesn't hurt as much.

Though long days of beating have gotten me immune to such pain, though I will never really get used to the foreign feeling of it. The skin tearing, the trickle of red. The sensation of obliviousness.

Glancing to my left and right, I see the splatter of blood across the wall, rusted nails on the floor. And my own crimson splatter in front of me, more as I put my head against the wall, resting my forehead against the cool surface.

Again, he hits.

The ones I love are long taken before me, leaving me alone in this empty cell. Forced to kneel, to watch others die. Bleed to their death as they stare, and never blink again. He told me I was the cause, the cause of their deaths. Because they took care of me, because they loved me.

One of 'their' is a woman. Or, was a woman before she died. She was a wonderful mother, filled with nothing but love and sunshine. If I could imagine properley, I could replace the stench of blood with the aroma of her cookies.

The thought stings, somewhat like a needle stabbed through the fragile heart. A needle sharp indeed.

Another whip cracks, and I stiffle a yelp from my trembling lips, dry and chapped from the cold air. Not because of the pain, but the memories he made me remember.

I remember her voice. Lullabies she used to sing to put me asleep. Away from the monsters under my bed, away from the nightmares invading my dreams. Her voice was soothing, kind and gentle. An angelic voice. Somehow, I can still hear it whispering in my ears, echoing words I can't seem to process.

Though the one beating me half dead every day is the opposite. A father, but not a dad. He does not care about me like mum did. He does not love me like mum did. And he does not treat me like mum did.

The way he treats me is different, cruel and heartless. Belt made of leather and metal. Using the end to whip, leaving more ugly scars on the already ruined back.

Scars over scars, old under new. The basement is cold, freezing with every pulsing heartbeat. You can feel it as you breathe in, the stuffy air filling your lungs. The surface is covered with thin dust, some gray and some white. After a few minutes, the whipping stops. I brush away the hair covering my face, white as if bleached from the years of torture.

But something is off. The usual beating which takes hours now reduced to minutes. Is he tired of this lovely treatment? Is he tired of his little toy?

The sound of his leather shoes echo away as he steps out of the basement, out the steel door and up the wooden stairs. Not a single strand of hair out of place. Jet black with a streak of grey.