Tortured's Tale

Chapter 4

She was limping down the street in blinding sun. Blood spurted through her dry lips in inconsistent coughs. A sword in ornamented scabbard was hanging on her back in a careless fashion. Her whole body contorted in fits of uncontrollable shakes. Tomorrow her pale skin would acquire blue shade on most of her torso.

After leaving the room she shared a night in with her poor companion she hurried down the stairs into the front hall. The hall was poorly lit. There were no windows to invite daylight in. An eternal gloom reigned in the whore-house, a realm of crimson desires enclosed in shadows entangled with mysterious fragrances floating in vaporous webs, dumbing the senses and with them the mind.
The landlady throned in a large armchair like a queen of sins. A cigar was sticking out of her oversized smirk.
"Good morning, dear. How was your night?"
"Fine. Where is my sword?" the retort came out more crudely than she intended.
"Ts-ts-ts, why so annoyed, dear? Not happy with our service? Where did you leave that sweet voice of yours? " answered the landlady teasingly.
"It perished with my virginity. My sword!"
The Queen of Sins frowned. Casually relaxing into her throne and crossing arms on her sizable chest she said:
"Dear, there is no need to be rude.", she leaned forward passing into a whisper, "Don't forget you are depending on my kindness here."
The girl on the opposite side of the wooden board clenched her jaw:
"I depend on none. You the least of all."
"Hm, so self-confident. Ts-ts-ts. What about you use those doors there", she pointed to the exit, "and I will forget you haven't paid?"
This was the breaking point for the dark-clothed stranger. She wasn't a thief. Nothing of the kind. She just didn't see a point in paying for a service she hadn't even experienced. No use in explaining either. The discussion was over. If she wished to hold her blade ever again the only resort was brute force. With that in mind, she jumped the counter.

She managed it quite admirably given that being outnumbered by two rather well-built men is taken into account. The moment her booted feet touched the carpet's hairy mane they emerged from behind the shadows around the throne. And although unarmed it was obvious they didn't need weapons to deal with troublemakers repeatedly crossing the threshold of the whorehouse.
She smiled.
"Let's dance, handsomes. "

The only visible evidence of heated fight showed in the occasional supply of red blood and ugly limp on her right leg. One of the thugs managed to topple her as she was running for the exit and took hold of her. He had a disfigured complexion and dumb gaze so typical for his barbarian sort. He clumsily pinned her down and with all of his strength brutally beat her right thigh with such an unbelievable ruthlessness that she screamed like a cornered animal. Desperate and at the point of fainting from agony she spat in his face. It worked as a sufficient distraction to ease his grip. In a blink of an eye, she cast her legs around his head and with remnants of her dying strength deftly twisted his neck, extinguishing the life's candle...

The tongue pressed against the cracked lips.

I need to get water somewhere.

As a hard soul addict, she usually didn't consume any kind of food for days on end. One soul was nutritious enough to keep a body going for weeks. But she couldn't survive without water.

She felt awfully miserable.

I should've let them kill me.

What was the point in going on anyway? Last five years had been a mess of hazy memories clumped together to form a bundle of nothing. What had happened before she lost her most precious gift, she tried to forget. Deprived of her most essential part her mind became torn in two. Every second was excruciating pain, slowly but steadily devouring what was left of her own self.

The truth was the white-haired girl did not want to die. She just did not want to live.