Insurrection [On Hold]

19 Punished

I gasp as I fall to the ground, clutching my head with my hands, attempting to hold in the sobs.

"Four."

The whip flies, biting my back like a viper.

"Stand up," my father orders from the other side of the room.

I pant, my back bent and my head pressed into the floor. Blood trickles down my bare back. Droplets land on the ground. I shake my head, the top of my scalp grinding into the black cement.

"Stand up now or your lashes are doubled."

Pressing my palms onto the ground, I force myself up, my body protesting with cracks.

"Five."

My back arches at the sound of the crack, and the whip slaps my right shoulder. I stumble forward, pushing myself against the wall for support and to cover the exposed front of me.

"Six."

The whip lands against the middle of my back like thorns being pressed into me.

"Seven."

"Please, please, please." I scream as it catches me right at the base of my neck. My knees buckle, and I collapse to the floor.

"Eight."

The whip doesn't come.

"McCall, now."

"I can't watch this," Gale mutters. A door clicks shut.

"Do you want her standing, Your Majesty?" the woman with the whip asks.

"Raksana, get up now."

I wipe my tears on the rough wall also made out of cement. "I can't."

"Fifteen if I have to help you up."

No. I can't. Can't I go home? Can't I fall in my bed and imagine my whole life's been one big dream? I grip at the wall, my hands shaking. Trying to dig my nails into the wall, I slice the tips open. I continue to grip, but I sink farther down.

"Very well." Feet pound against the ground, and a hand squeezes the back of my neck, rubbing into one of the lash marks. The side of my face is dragged against the wall as I'm yanked upward. My face feels like sandpaper is being rubbed against it only a thousand times worse.

Once I'm on my feet my father presses the side of my face into the wall, before releasing my neck.

"Now, eight."

I stumble against the wall pressing my face harder against it as the whip lands on a spot it's already familiar with.

"Nine."

The whip whines as it streams through the air.

"Ten, eleven, twelve."

My body feels as if I've been plunged into fire. Three more. Just three more.

"Thirteen, fourteen."

The whip is a paint brush, and my back its canvas. The flogger is the artist, and my father is the director. I'm the easel forced to bear the strain.

One more. . .

"Fifteen."

My fingers open as the whip bites into my back, and I sink to the floor, my cheek dragging against the stone. It's over.

"Sixteen."

The whip lands on my cheek just below my eye. I scream, the pain worse than the strokes to my back.