Seven Deadly Sons

Ameline. (25)

"You do know I have to discipline you after your actions yesterday, yes?"

The prince addresses me from one of his lounges, this one with no windows but many, many books lining the small spherical rooms walls. There seemed to be a circular trend with his rooms and life, but I hadn't quite guessed why he was so obsessed — it certainly wasn't because he just loved the Bible so much.

"Yes. Your Highness."

"And you are aware that, after said beating and or disciplining, I will have to take you to at least one stately event so as to rectify my scorned reputation?"

"Yes. Your supreme Highness."

This had been going on for quite some time now, I almost expected him to whip out a sheet of paper and quill and ask me to 'please, if I could' sign on the line at the bottom to secure my place in eternal hell.

"Also, you must have some idea that the beatings will be quite physical, and it is beyond a shadow of my choice that I will be hurting you where people can see. And you might not like it. Yes?" He continues, now into his fifth lap around the room. I stay sat on a chair, because maybe he would walk such a deep circle he would eventually fall through the floor and I could go home.

Oliver was laid across my lap after a brief jaunt in the princes private terrace. Outside a glass door from the second bedroom I found yesterday was an outside space set on top of the rooms below, allowing for quite a large grassy area for the little lad to run around on. He had also taken quite a fondness for flowers, and I had enjoyed watching the wicked thing kill every rare plant in sight seconds after the prince had deigned to point them out to me. He was like a hose from hell to the foliage.

"Are you even listening to me?" The prince had stopped pacing as I daydreamed about ruining his private collection of rare plants, and was now glaring at me with enough anger that I worried if this disciplining session would actually hurt me for longer than momentarily.

What if he hits me too hard and permanently breaks me? I shiver at the thought.

"You do know what you are doing, right Your Highness?"

He assures me he does, then asks me to stretch my arms out and bend at the hip over a slab of wood. I don't see how I can avoid it, so I comply and let him strap my hands down too. He tries them tight enough that soon I feel my palms going numb and, when he ties my hips flush to the block my legs go tingly and numb under the trousers I borrowed from him. They are baggy enough that I look like some kind of pirate princess, especially with the ruffly shirt I also pinched.

"I want you to know I have the best healing salves and tonics in the world. Probably better than the antibiotics on your planet, too."

"Just do it!" I shriek, the tension finally building up too much to listen to him for any longer, now that I was tied down and bent over a piece of wood.

Crack. Crack. CRACK! CrackCrackCrack!

He brings the whip down across my brittle arms thrice each, and then starts on my back. He tells me only three more before he has to move on to the next "punishment": branding.

The prince also explains, while he works, that the whip doesn't actually make the sharp noise I hear; its the cracker on the end. How quant. I think with half a contained sob, my body heaving as more alcohol and acid comes up my throat and starts dripping off the wood. I will not scream for this household.

"So when the cracker moves faster than the speed of sound," CRACK! "It actually creates a miniature shock wave and sonic boom." THWAK CRACK.

"And thats the noise you hear right before I strike you." Crack!

I scream on the last one as it slices over the top of the previous two, causing unimaginable pain as the skin splits in another direction. It hurts even more as the prince slowly drags the whip out my undoubtably bloody back.

I bet my spine is visible. I absentmindedly wonder.

The prince starts to dab on some tonic, but I stop him with a cutting "No. Do not stop. I will not last if you stop." And he moves away again.

I start to sob more when I hear the raking noise of metal on metal, dragging out from the spitting and cracking fire.

"You need dryer looks." I mumble through the tears, a bit hysterically.

"Why?"

The princes voice is soft as he speaks to me. Probably to hide the smile in his voice as he brands me. "Your fire is spitting because the logs are too wet. Dryer ones will spit significantly less and bemuchlesslikelytoburnyourhomedown." I finish the last part in a rush as I start panicking, but I will not beg. I sob and sob, but I will not let him make me beg.