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museworks((LJ cut later on in the entry, but just giving a warning for disturbing/possibly triggering content here too.))
I have another reason for writing here. Not just for me, but I want him to see. I want my brother to understand it. I don't know why I do but I do. It seems important. Perhaps because right now I feel Chesric is all I have but I have to know that he understands it all, before I can-- I don't even know what words I'm looking for. It just seems necessary at this point, since I might see him more often. It might help me through reliving this, even if I do so only in recorded words and in memories.
After that strange dinner with Jovan, and his nighttime visit, it was darkness again. I don't know for how long, precisely. At least, not for certain; I kept tally of the meals I had. There were thirty in all. I believe it was back to once a day, because my courses came and went, and going by an estimate of how long they usually last for me, there were six meals during that time. I was grateful for the washroom, for it meant I could maintain some semblance of cleanliness, unlike that initial period of time.
I was grateful to not be with child, either. Though I did wonder at the time if that would have seen my life improve. I don't know whether it would have or not, and I was not given the chance; I later learned that I was deliberately fed herbs and potions to prevent such a thing.
I think it'd be redundant to go over the entire cycle of light, dark, abandonment, and company. Needless to say it happened many more times, and each time I knew I was a little weaker than the last. It was wearing me down. Just when I thought I would go mad in the darkness, he allowed the light back in once more. All the while I never left my chambers. All the while I remained barren, though for that last I was still grateful. I didn't know if anyone outside still cared for me, even my brother. I didn't know if I cared, even; life had become dull, the world around me growing slightly dimmer by the day. By the hour.
Then for another period of time, darkness again-- but without food. Again I was uncertain as to how much time had passed, but long enough that I was growing weak and disoriented. I drank water, as my washroom was still open to me, but it could only do so much. It was not food, and it couldn't calm the gnawing feeling that grew. It didn't do anything about the weakness.
And it was still dark. That blasted darkness.
He finally returned. He had food. I could smell it, and it made me nearly pass out. Or maybe I did pass out; I do not remember. What I do remember is one moment it was dark and I heard him, and smelled the food, and the next it was blindingly bright and painful and there were other voices. Even now I can feel my cheeks burning and stomach twisting at the very thought of recording this memory, and especially because I know I must let another read it, as much as I want to shrink from doing so. But I cannot write this in First Person perspective; I have to switch to Third.
She was faint from hunger and unable to focus on much else. Especially when he brought food, that both smelled wonderful and repulsive. She could only think of it, even as she felt ill. Even the other voices she heard, male voices, seemed dim.
"I imagine you'd like this," he said, and held out the plate.
When she reached for it he pulled it back and put it on the floor. When she approached it on the floor, moving on her hands and knees, she reached out to take a piece of bread from the plate. She felt a hand on her head, that pushed her face down into the plate, into the food. She heard laughter.
"Eat it like a dog," he said.
Pride gave way to desperation, and she did. Even though she wanted to vomit from the feeling of humiliation, even though the laughter continued, even though there was a lump in her throat and her vision was blurred from tears, she ate. She rested on her forearms, face lowered to the plate, and ate. She lacked the willpower to do anything else.
She lacked the willpower to do anything but sob into the silk bedsheets as each had his turn.
I cannot bring myself to write any more of that, or anything else, right now. All I want to do is hide in my tent, curl up in my bedroll, and cry. But I will not let myself do that. I will do something better.
There are always things that need killing.
I have another reason for writing here. Not just for me, but I want him to see. I want my brother to understand it. I don't know why I do but I do. It seems important. Perhaps because right now I feel Chesric is all I have but I have to know that he understands it all, before I can-- I don't even know what words I'm looking for. It just seems necessary at this point, since I might see him more often. It might help me through reliving this, even if I do so only in recorded words and in memories.
After that strange dinner with Jovan, and his nighttime visit, it was darkness again. I don't know for how long, precisely. At least, not for certain; I kept tally of the meals I had. There were thirty in all. I believe it was back to once a day, because my courses came and went, and going by an estimate of how long they usually last for me, there were six meals during that time. I was grateful for the washroom, for it meant I could maintain some semblance of cleanliness, unlike that initial period of time.
I was grateful to not be with child, either. Though I did wonder at the time if that would have seen my life improve. I don't know whether it would have or not, and I was not given the chance; I later learned that I was deliberately fed herbs and potions to prevent such a thing.
I think it'd be redundant to go over the entire cycle of light, dark, abandonment, and company. Needless to say it happened many more times, and each time I knew I was a little weaker than the last. It was wearing me down. Just when I thought I would go mad in the darkness, he allowed the light back in once more. All the while I never left my chambers. All the while I remained barren, though for that last I was still grateful. I didn't know if anyone outside still cared for me, even my brother. I didn't know if I cared, even; life had become dull, the world around me growing slightly dimmer by the day. By the hour.
Then for another period of time, darkness again-- but without food. Again I was uncertain as to how much time had passed, but long enough that I was growing weak and disoriented. I drank water, as my washroom was still open to me, but it could only do so much. It was not food, and it couldn't calm the gnawing feeling that grew. It didn't do anything about the weakness.
And it was still dark. That blasted darkness.
He finally returned. He had food. I could smell it, and it made me nearly pass out. Or maybe I did pass out; I do not remember. What I do remember is one moment it was dark and I heard him, and smelled the food, and the next it was blindingly bright and painful and there were other voices. Even now I can feel my cheeks burning and stomach twisting at the very thought of recording this memory, and especially because I know I must let another read it, as much as I want to shrink from doing so. But I cannot write this in First Person perspective; I have to switch to Third.
She was faint from hunger and unable to focus on much else. Especially when he brought food, that both smelled wonderful and repulsive. She could only think of it, even as she felt ill. Even the other voices she heard, male voices, seemed dim.
"I imagine you'd like this," he said, and held out the plate.
When she reached for it he pulled it back and put it on the floor. When she approached it on the floor, moving on her hands and knees, she reached out to take a piece of bread from the plate. She felt a hand on her head, that pushed her face down into the plate, into the food. She heard laughter.
"Eat it like a dog," he said.
Pride gave way to desperation, and she did. Even though she wanted to vomit from the feeling of humiliation, even though the laughter continued, even though there was a lump in her throat and her vision was blurred from tears, she ate. She rested on her forearms, face lowered to the plate, and ate. She lacked the willpower to do anything else.
She lacked the willpower to do anything but sob into the silk bedsheets as each had his turn.
I cannot bring myself to write any more of that, or anything else, right now. All I want to do is hide in my tent, curl up in my bedroll, and cry. But I will not let myself do that. I will do something better.
There are always things that need killing.
