A Year of Novembers

Chapter Three

----------Author's Note----------

It's about to get a little corporal- punishment-y, so this is a fair warning to all those who may have trigger issues. The following chapter contains self- injury (not Sophia, it's okay) and violence. Just wanted to give a head's up.

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          The religion teacher grabs me roughly, shoving me into a room and locking the door behind her as she steps in. I stare at her as she lifts a wooden paddle off of a hook.

            "Bend over," she orders, patting her palm with the paddle.

            My defiance has not won me anything so far, but I refuse to bend over, staring at her defiantly.

            "Bend over," she repeats. Her eyes flicker with annoyance. "This is your last warning. Bend over, or you'll face the consequences."

            I am now sixteen. I do not take orders from women who have mistreated me since I was small. I allow myself to smirk for a moment, folding my hands in front of me demurely.

            Pride is a fickle thing.

            She glares at me a moment longer, then smiles and exits the room. I release a breath I didn't realize that I had been holding. I allow my proud posture to fall for a moment, but she reenters the room and I straighten instinctively. There is a leather horse-whip curled around her closed fist. Suddenly, the paddle seems like a better option.

            "I advise you to bend over now, Sophia," she smirks. She twirls the whip around her fingers, and it is fear that propels me to shake my head. A leather whip will hurt more than a small paddle.

            She cocks an eyebrow, and before I understand what is going on, the whip is cracking loudly as it bites into the tender flesh on my back. I cry out in pain, but bite back tears. I will not cry in front of this woman. I will not give her that satisfaction. I sit on the floor, my back to the cruel teacher. She circles in front of me, bending down and whispering to me:

            "The paddle would have hurt less." She snaps the biting leather onto my back again, and I feel one of the sharp edges dig into my skin. Warmth seeps out from the wound; it's undoubtedly bleeding. Again, she slaps the cracking leather onto my back, and I can feel it each time the clasps cut into my skin. My blouse is torn on the back, and little strips of the white material hang down around me. After she gets used to the weighty leather, she begins cracking the whip on me even harder. I am positioned on my knees, my quivering arms holding up my weight. Each time the harsh leather makes contact with the raw flesh on my back, my arms cave in for a moment, and I bend towards the ground.

            It seems to last an eternity until she is satisfied with her torturous punishment, and she leaves the room, and me with it. I choke back a sob. It burns to move, to breathe, so I lie on the cold laminate floors and stay as still as possible. I deserve some of these lashes for my obstinacy, but the amount of blood I can feel on my skin far outweighs the crime.

            I lie until I feel the blood begin to dry, but a dry fear that the religion teacher will reenter and punish me further compels me to shuffle to my room. I enter quietly, softly kicking the door shut when I don't see Lorna. I maneuver out of the shredded white blouse and step into the bathroom, running a bath to hopefully ease my wounds. My hair is wild in the mirror, mousy locks falling lazily out of my tight bun. Everything about how I appear shrieks run away; my hair, the small cuts on my face from where the whip curled around to snap at my head, my swollen cheek from Ms. Deville's violence. I have yet to inspect the damage to my back, but I suspect it is not as lovely as I hope.