Reprisal
Week three for brigits_flame All Stars. Literally JUST wrote this in about an hour, so it's probably riddled with errors and all that. No real warnings for this one other than child birth and blood and implied sexual abuse. This is a continuation from the last couple weeks, and the next to last entry for this series.
I was living in a luxurious house, literally with an entire fleet of servants at my beck and call. Anything I could possibly want or desire was at my disposal, whether it was a specific food or a finely made dress. I was allowed outside to roam through gardens so elaborate they seemed to have sprouted from the pages of a faerie tale. I had an entire room to myself with a bed my sister and I could have shared with plenty of space to spare. It was everything a girl my age and status could have dreamt for.
But no amount of luxury could hide the fact that this house was a prison and I was only valuable because of the thing growing inside me.
It had been a startling thing to look at my reflection in the mirror and see how my stomach protruded outward. At first, it had been a tiny thing, nothing truly noticeable, but that quickly changed. As the days and weeks and months went by, I watched my body change and it filled me with a combination of loathing and wonder. My breasts were fuller now and ached every so often. I was more easily winded and couldn’t stand for long without my feet swelling up and hurting. And then there was the movement inside me. It started as little flutters, butterfly movements, but it became stronger as time went on until there was no mistaking that something was living inside me. Sometimes, the blows were so hard that they woke me from a sound sleep. Other times, they were gentle brushes, almost ticklish.
I wasn’t the only one who watched my progression closely. The couple did as well, though they did so with more joy than I. The wife in particular was fascinated with my rounded belly. Once it started forming, she stopped looking me in the face. Her gaze would remain focused, greedily so, on my growing shape. I had ceased being a person to her altogether.
At the first mention of movement, those looks had turned into touches. Every day, she would make me stand before her, naked, and run her hands over my stomach. She would drop to her knees before me, place her ear to my exposed skin, and remain there listening and feeling for a sign that the thing inside me was there. That it recognized her.
Whether by coincidence or design, it always went still whenever she did this. She would wait awhile before rising, giving a disappointed sigh, and announcing that tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, she would try and say hello to her darling baby. It was a bitter victory for me that the thing inside me refused to acknowledge her damp, trembling fingers, but it was a victory nonetheless and I clung to it with fervently. After she would leave, I would smooth my own hands over my stomach and relish the responding taps and thumps. Despite feeling nothing but enmity toward the thing, it gave me some small comfort to know that, no matter what would come, at least this much I could keep from them.
Her husband was worse. He never looked at my stomach. He had no interest in that. Instead, his eyes would fixate on my engorged breasts. I would catch him staring at the cleavage I couldn’t help to have, an unmistakable glint in his dark eyes. Often times he would lick his lips as if he could taste my flesh, but as soon as he caught me staring he would scowl and turn away. But it wasn’t just my breasts he watched so intently. I could feel his eyes on me as I walked through the house, taking in my backside as if he could see through the layers of silk and lace. A familiar cold sensation always ran down my spine whenever he was around, one that pulled me back to a darkened room that shimmered around the edges and a body thrusting hard against mine.
Before my stomach became too cumbersome, he would insist on having me join him in the library, typically when his wife was away shopping for the baby. He would pat his knee, ask me why don’t I sit on his lap and read to him? At first I refused, politely, but then one day he grabbed my wrist and forced me onto his lap. One arm circled my waist, holding me in place, and then I was made to hold whatever book he wanted me to read to him that day. He had me read all sorts of material: philosophical tomes, the Bible, plays, poetry. There were even books of an unsavory nature, books he kept locked away in his desk. Books that made his breathing shallow and stirred his flesh. I hated reading those books to him.
There were also fantastical books as well, containing stories from times long ago. My favorites were the stories involving the ancient Roman gods and goddesses. If my mother knew I was reading about paganism, she would have been beside herself. But I loved them. I loved the lessons they taught, the beauty in their words. I loved that, to those long ago Romans, their gods were not above mortals. They felt rage and desire, sorrow and joy. They were capable of petty cruelty just as they were of benevolence.
However, as time wore on and my stomach continued to grow and grow, I was denied many of the privileges I once had. I was no longer allowed to walk down steps or into the gardens. I was only allowed out of my bed for necessary reasons. It was for my safety, they said, but I knew better than that. They didn’t want to risk anything happening to their child. I was now not just their prisoner but a prisoner of my own body.
No one said it, but I knew the time was close. I knew that any day, the thing growing inside of me was going to come out into the world. And when that happened, I would no longer have a purpose for them. I would be tossed aside, to live or die as God and Fate allowed, and never thought of again, not even in passing. I wasn’t sure if that pleased me or frightened me.
It is almost time, at least that is what the doctor tells her after examining the girl. She is in prime condition, healthy and well formed. Any day now and they will be welcoming their beautiful child into their house.
She is almost delirious with joy. For so many years, she has wished and prayed with all her might for a child she could call her own. And now that it is finally here and so close to happening... Oh, it was so wonderful!
She has spent the last several months preparing everything for her child, making certain everything is absolutely perfect. The guest room next to the bedroom she shares with her husband has been redesigned to accommodate an infant. It is all in neutral white, which seems fitting to her for welcoming a new and innocent life into the world. Delicate lace clothing is folded neatly into drawers, linen diapers are arranged by the changing station. There is even a rocking chair for her to sit in and sing her lovely child to sleep.
Her husband suggested keeping the girl on to nurse the new child, seeing as she herself cannot, but she quickly negated. She has seen the way he looks at that girl when he thinks she cannot, and she will not allow temptation to tarnish what should be a happy occasion for their new family. So, to that end, she has also made arrangements for the girl to be removed as soon as the doctor declares she is fit for it. The girl will be sent to their country retreat for a time where she will be educated in how to be a proper lady’s servant and then she will be found suitable employment. She is a smart child and will do well in the occupation.
But enough of that unhappy business. There is a baby on the way - her baby. Her darling, precious, long wished for baby. It fills her heart with gladness to know that, very soon, she will be a mother. Any day now.
It was a stormy night when the pain started. At first, I thought nothing of the twinges centering between my legs. I had felt them a few times before, especially in recent months, and had been assured by the doctor that it was natural. He had told me to walk about whenever it happened, that the movement would calm my muscles and the baby alike. I did as he instructed and pushed awkwardly to my feet.
I didn’t bother with slippers or a robe; the room felt stiflingly hot. I went over to the wide windows along one side of the room and opened them, letting in a rush of rain and wind. Lightning slashed across the sky, bringing temporary and blinding light to the darkness I hated. The thunder rolled so heavily through the air that I could feel it echo in my chest. In a matter of minutes, I was soaked to the bone. I continued to stand there, the curtains swirling in the harsh wind, and relished the cold.
That was when I felt it: warmth running down my legs. A flood of water that had nothing to do with the rain pelting me and everything to do with the sudden lash of pain through my stomach.
I cried out, one hand grasping the edge of the window to keep my knees from buckling. This was different from the other jolts, more intense and definitely more prolonged. Something was changing, and it scared me.
Another burst of pain tore a cry from me, and soon there were arms around me, dragging me away from the window. The glass was closed and the dripping curtains drawn closed. I was carried back to the bed, still trying to relearn how to breathe, as servants began bustling about.
Minutes passed, punctuated by the spasms cramping through my stomach. Each time one came, I was momentarily blinded by the agony of it. My teeth ground together hard, but it wasn’t enough to keep the cries in check. I couldn’t begin to protest as my legs were shifted apart, knees raised, and the skirt to my nightgown shoved up over my hips.
Somewhere during the time the servants positioned me, the doctor arrived, accompanied by the couple. The husband stayed back, though I caught him trying to angle a curious glance between my spread legs. The wife, however, rushed over to my side, her eyes glittering with anxious delight.
“Oh, darling girl!” she exclaimed, clasping my hand between both of hers. “It is time! Oh, how I wish I could experience what you are now!”
I wanted to snarl how unlikely that was, but then the pain returned sharper than ever before and I found myself squeezing her hand desperately. She grimaced but held on, waiting until it passed before smoothing her cool hand across my sweaty brow.
“Try not to tax yourself too much, dear. This is just the beginning,” she offered solicitously.
For the second time in my life, I prayed to God that he would just let me die.
I don’t know how long it lasted. Everything from that night is a blur of pain and tears and thunder. I remember that at the height of it, when I thought for sure my body was going to be ripped apart, that the storm broke. I remember my head falling back on the pillows, of staring out at the sky just beginning to pinken with dawn, and hearing the thunder roll off into the distance.
And then I heard the scream.
It was shrill, fierce almost. Like a battle cry. It was the sound that had lived inside me since this all began, the sound of my fight being brought to life. My eyes opened, blinked slowly as they adjusted to the growing light. I was alone on the bed, utterly forgotten in a mess of blood and fluid. There was so much blood - more than it seemed possible for me to contain. My body was numb, heavy and cold with the strain, but I had just enough strength left to turn toward that scream.
At first, I didn’t see the source. There were too many bodies weaving between me and it, too many people cooing softly. I caught snatches of a white blanket, of the woman rocking from side to side with the most adoring look on her face. I tried to push myself up further, tried to catch the attention of a servant, the doctor - anyone - to ask them to move, to demand that I be shown what my life sacrificed for.
Then, it happened. The bodies parted, the servants left the room, and I saw her for the first time.
Her face was mottled red and purple and her mouth was wide open as she gave voice to her outraged screams. I could see her arms waving, almost as if she were batting away the fingers poking at her. Only hours old and she was already fighting against the world, displaying the strength I’d held inside me this whole time. The woman was holding her awkwardly, constantly adjusting her arms to get a better hold. I knew instinctively that she could never hold that tiny warrior the same way that I could. That the screaming girl in her arms could never be hers.
No one, not the doctor or the couple or the sole remaining servant who was busy tidying things up, noticed me struggling to my feet. I didn’t matter any longer. What did matter was the tiny life they were trying to claim as their own - the life I created. The only thought I had was that I had to get to her. I had to fight, just as hard as she was, for what was mine - what I’d bought and paid for through all the agony and sorrow those people had put me through. They didn’t notice me stumble, draw on an inner strength I didn’t know I still had, and continue forward.
They didn’t see me, covered in my own blood and the birth fluids of my daughter, pick up the slim knife the doctor had used to sever the cord.
I was living in a luxurious house, literally with an entire fleet of servants at my beck and call. Anything I could possibly want or desire was at my disposal, whether it was a specific food or a finely made dress. I was allowed outside to roam through gardens so elaborate they seemed to have sprouted from the pages of a faerie tale. I had an entire room to myself with a bed my sister and I could have shared with plenty of space to spare. It was everything a girl my age and status could have dreamt for.
But no amount of luxury could hide the fact that this house was a prison and I was only valuable because of the thing growing inside me.
It had been a startling thing to look at my reflection in the mirror and see how my stomach protruded outward. At first, it had been a tiny thing, nothing truly noticeable, but that quickly changed. As the days and weeks and months went by, I watched my body change and it filled me with a combination of loathing and wonder. My breasts were fuller now and ached every so often. I was more easily winded and couldn’t stand for long without my feet swelling up and hurting. And then there was the movement inside me. It started as little flutters, butterfly movements, but it became stronger as time went on until there was no mistaking that something was living inside me. Sometimes, the blows were so hard that they woke me from a sound sleep. Other times, they were gentle brushes, almost ticklish.
I wasn’t the only one who watched my progression closely. The couple did as well, though they did so with more joy than I. The wife in particular was fascinated with my rounded belly. Once it started forming, she stopped looking me in the face. Her gaze would remain focused, greedily so, on my growing shape. I had ceased being a person to her altogether.
At the first mention of movement, those looks had turned into touches. Every day, she would make me stand before her, naked, and run her hands over my stomach. She would drop to her knees before me, place her ear to my exposed skin, and remain there listening and feeling for a sign that the thing inside me was there. That it recognized her.
Whether by coincidence or design, it always went still whenever she did this. She would wait awhile before rising, giving a disappointed sigh, and announcing that tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, she would try and say hello to her darling baby. It was a bitter victory for me that the thing inside me refused to acknowledge her damp, trembling fingers, but it was a victory nonetheless and I clung to it with fervently. After she would leave, I would smooth my own hands over my stomach and relish the responding taps and thumps. Despite feeling nothing but enmity toward the thing, it gave me some small comfort to know that, no matter what would come, at least this much I could keep from them.
Her husband was worse. He never looked at my stomach. He had no interest in that. Instead, his eyes would fixate on my engorged breasts. I would catch him staring at the cleavage I couldn’t help to have, an unmistakable glint in his dark eyes. Often times he would lick his lips as if he could taste my flesh, but as soon as he caught me staring he would scowl and turn away. But it wasn’t just my breasts he watched so intently. I could feel his eyes on me as I walked through the house, taking in my backside as if he could see through the layers of silk and lace. A familiar cold sensation always ran down my spine whenever he was around, one that pulled me back to a darkened room that shimmered around the edges and a body thrusting hard against mine.
Before my stomach became too cumbersome, he would insist on having me join him in the library, typically when his wife was away shopping for the baby. He would pat his knee, ask me why don’t I sit on his lap and read to him? At first I refused, politely, but then one day he grabbed my wrist and forced me onto his lap. One arm circled my waist, holding me in place, and then I was made to hold whatever book he wanted me to read to him that day. He had me read all sorts of material: philosophical tomes, the Bible, plays, poetry. There were even books of an unsavory nature, books he kept locked away in his desk. Books that made his breathing shallow and stirred his flesh. I hated reading those books to him.
There were also fantastical books as well, containing stories from times long ago. My favorites were the stories involving the ancient Roman gods and goddesses. If my mother knew I was reading about paganism, she would have been beside herself. But I loved them. I loved the lessons they taught, the beauty in their words. I loved that, to those long ago Romans, their gods were not above mortals. They felt rage and desire, sorrow and joy. They were capable of petty cruelty just as they were of benevolence.
However, as time wore on and my stomach continued to grow and grow, I was denied many of the privileges I once had. I was no longer allowed to walk down steps or into the gardens. I was only allowed out of my bed for necessary reasons. It was for my safety, they said, but I knew better than that. They didn’t want to risk anything happening to their child. I was now not just their prisoner but a prisoner of my own body.
No one said it, but I knew the time was close. I knew that any day, the thing growing inside of me was going to come out into the world. And when that happened, I would no longer have a purpose for them. I would be tossed aside, to live or die as God and Fate allowed, and never thought of again, not even in passing. I wasn’t sure if that pleased me or frightened me.
It is almost time, at least that is what the doctor tells her after examining the girl. She is in prime condition, healthy and well formed. Any day now and they will be welcoming their beautiful child into their house.
She is almost delirious with joy. For so many years, she has wished and prayed with all her might for a child she could call her own. And now that it is finally here and so close to happening... Oh, it was so wonderful!
She has spent the last several months preparing everything for her child, making certain everything is absolutely perfect. The guest room next to the bedroom she shares with her husband has been redesigned to accommodate an infant. It is all in neutral white, which seems fitting to her for welcoming a new and innocent life into the world. Delicate lace clothing is folded neatly into drawers, linen diapers are arranged by the changing station. There is even a rocking chair for her to sit in and sing her lovely child to sleep.
Her husband suggested keeping the girl on to nurse the new child, seeing as she herself cannot, but she quickly negated. She has seen the way he looks at that girl when he thinks she cannot, and she will not allow temptation to tarnish what should be a happy occasion for their new family. So, to that end, she has also made arrangements for the girl to be removed as soon as the doctor declares she is fit for it. The girl will be sent to their country retreat for a time where she will be educated in how to be a proper lady’s servant and then she will be found suitable employment. She is a smart child and will do well in the occupation.
But enough of that unhappy business. There is a baby on the way - her baby. Her darling, precious, long wished for baby. It fills her heart with gladness to know that, very soon, she will be a mother. Any day now.
It was a stormy night when the pain started. At first, I thought nothing of the twinges centering between my legs. I had felt them a few times before, especially in recent months, and had been assured by the doctor that it was natural. He had told me to walk about whenever it happened, that the movement would calm my muscles and the baby alike. I did as he instructed and pushed awkwardly to my feet.
I didn’t bother with slippers or a robe; the room felt stiflingly hot. I went over to the wide windows along one side of the room and opened them, letting in a rush of rain and wind. Lightning slashed across the sky, bringing temporary and blinding light to the darkness I hated. The thunder rolled so heavily through the air that I could feel it echo in my chest. In a matter of minutes, I was soaked to the bone. I continued to stand there, the curtains swirling in the harsh wind, and relished the cold.
That was when I felt it: warmth running down my legs. A flood of water that had nothing to do with the rain pelting me and everything to do with the sudden lash of pain through my stomach.
I cried out, one hand grasping the edge of the window to keep my knees from buckling. This was different from the other jolts, more intense and definitely more prolonged. Something was changing, and it scared me.
Another burst of pain tore a cry from me, and soon there were arms around me, dragging me away from the window. The glass was closed and the dripping curtains drawn closed. I was carried back to the bed, still trying to relearn how to breathe, as servants began bustling about.
Minutes passed, punctuated by the spasms cramping through my stomach. Each time one came, I was momentarily blinded by the agony of it. My teeth ground together hard, but it wasn’t enough to keep the cries in check. I couldn’t begin to protest as my legs were shifted apart, knees raised, and the skirt to my nightgown shoved up over my hips.
Somewhere during the time the servants positioned me, the doctor arrived, accompanied by the couple. The husband stayed back, though I caught him trying to angle a curious glance between my spread legs. The wife, however, rushed over to my side, her eyes glittering with anxious delight.
“Oh, darling girl!” she exclaimed, clasping my hand between both of hers. “It is time! Oh, how I wish I could experience what you are now!”
I wanted to snarl how unlikely that was, but then the pain returned sharper than ever before and I found myself squeezing her hand desperately. She grimaced but held on, waiting until it passed before smoothing her cool hand across my sweaty brow.
“Try not to tax yourself too much, dear. This is just the beginning,” she offered solicitously.
For the second time in my life, I prayed to God that he would just let me die.
I don’t know how long it lasted. Everything from that night is a blur of pain and tears and thunder. I remember that at the height of it, when I thought for sure my body was going to be ripped apart, that the storm broke. I remember my head falling back on the pillows, of staring out at the sky just beginning to pinken with dawn, and hearing the thunder roll off into the distance.
And then I heard the scream.
It was shrill, fierce almost. Like a battle cry. It was the sound that had lived inside me since this all began, the sound of my fight being brought to life. My eyes opened, blinked slowly as they adjusted to the growing light. I was alone on the bed, utterly forgotten in a mess of blood and fluid. There was so much blood - more than it seemed possible for me to contain. My body was numb, heavy and cold with the strain, but I had just enough strength left to turn toward that scream.
At first, I didn’t see the source. There were too many bodies weaving between me and it, too many people cooing softly. I caught snatches of a white blanket, of the woman rocking from side to side with the most adoring look on her face. I tried to push myself up further, tried to catch the attention of a servant, the doctor - anyone - to ask them to move, to demand that I be shown what my life sacrificed for.
Then, it happened. The bodies parted, the servants left the room, and I saw her for the first time.
Her face was mottled red and purple and her mouth was wide open as she gave voice to her outraged screams. I could see her arms waving, almost as if she were batting away the fingers poking at her. Only hours old and she was already fighting against the world, displaying the strength I’d held inside me this whole time. The woman was holding her awkwardly, constantly adjusting her arms to get a better hold. I knew instinctively that she could never hold that tiny warrior the same way that I could. That the screaming girl in her arms could never be hers.
No one, not the doctor or the couple or the sole remaining servant who was busy tidying things up, noticed me struggling to my feet. I didn’t matter any longer. What did matter was the tiny life they were trying to claim as their own - the life I created. The only thought I had was that I had to get to her. I had to fight, just as hard as she was, for what was mine - what I’d bought and paid for through all the agony and sorrow those people had put me through. They didn’t notice me stumble, draw on an inner strength I didn’t know I still had, and continue forward.
They didn’t see me, covered in my own blood and the birth fluids of my daughter, pick up the slim knife the doctor had used to sever the cord.