𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.
It's the beginning of a new age when Jaylah Imperatrix seemingly returns from the dead to reclaim her throne. And in perfect timing.
In her absence, evil has be...
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Act 3 Chapter 57 ALEXANDER
I wasn't even in control of my limbs anymore, which had long since devolved to jelly. What had even happened? I was unable to recall. All I knew was that I was scared in a manner I hadn't known since I was a child.
The door flung open as if kicked. I flinched. The silhouette was crisp on the edges of daytime behind him. Nausea turned my stomach upside down.
When he approached faster than I ever imagined possible—at the doorway one moment and centimeters from me the next—I tried to scramble back on shaky hands and feet. It was never any use. He grabbed me, though I didn't feel it, and took me outside as if I was nothing but a misbehaving puppy being carried by the scruff of its neck. As if I was a pile of feathers in his hand, light enough to take to the sky on a breeze. I was smaller than my body.
He was yelling. Berating me, really. A verbal beating. But I couldn't make any of it out because my ears were ringing. It was not like I needed to hear it anyway, since I already knew what he was saying. Those seeds were planted in my mind long ago, and now I had weeds leeching the life out of me. It was habit to water them every day.
The next thing I knew, I was on the ground with a thin sand layer sifting over my sweaty palms. When I tried to push myself up, I found I couldn't—the heaviness around my throat was too much to bear. Panic swept from the top of my head down the ridges of my spine. I wore no shirt.
I heard the crack against my exposed ribcage before I felt it. The pain of it made me drop from my elbows back to the ground, not even bothering to try again. My cheek was against the sand. I thought my back must be torn wide open. Were my bones white against the blinding sun? Would the sight of them make him stop?
It was never enough.
He struck me dozens of times. Hundreds. The only reason I knew I was not dead was because I was still looking upwards, too tired to breathe or blink. The blue sky was my only relief. And it was so far away.
Just keep going. That's what you always do.
Another strike against the boneless place just under my ribcage, sharp as a blade. And I was yelling. I was yelling so thunderously that I couldn't even think straight and he kept hitting me and my insides were beaten to mush. I thought I felt my skin tearing, my organs falling out on the sand. Tears streaked down the grime on my face. I needed to scoop my organs up, I thought deliriously. But there was nothing on the sand but rivulets of my own blood. I was drowning, choking in it.
What had I done to justify this? I couldn't remember that either. My memory began in the dark room and ended there too. Perhaps I couldn't remember because I deserved this death from a thousand blows after all. He was always telling me that. Maybe this was nothing but penance.
I was hauled up by hands under my armpits. Onto my knees like a beggar. No shirt, no shoes, only ragged pants. Horribly exposed and vulnerable to his hands. His hands, which wouldn't stop or soften no matter how I tried to talk him out of it. Then, when I realized what he was going to force me to do, I fought. Kicking and clawing no matter how much it stretched his agonizing injuries. He never stopped.
