Bellona (Part 1.5 of The Saskia Trilogy) by Aoife Marie Sheridan Page B

ground on both sides of the bucket lies a broken egg. I look up at Flat Nose and a sob escapes her lips. “Ten lashes for you both,” I say, my voice sounds so dull. My earlier excitement is gone.  Ace turns to me with confusion in his eyes, making me want to tear his eyeballs right out of their sockets.
    “Move now both of you.” Flat Nose practically falls off the bucket, her legs trembling, and both of them pass me sliding against the wall, keeping their heads bowed. Why wasn’t I feeling satisfied, am I not being creative enough?
    “Stop.” Both of them freeze and I walk towards them taking the lead, they follow as we make our way to the dungeons. The darkness is the first thing I notice. Then the smell of dampness, urine and decay hit me when I reach the bottom step. Marcus, the guard, rises and bows when he sees me.  He doesn’t show anything on his face, no surprise at having the princess enter the dungeon. 
    “Stay outside the door, I will call you if I need you,” I say, dismissing him. I have never been here before, I never get my hands dirty, and that’s what Marcus is here for. But right now my tattered heart is hurting and I need release.
    I look inside the dungeon; it’s bare only for a large boulder that’s cemented into the ground. I point at the wall facing it.
    “You stand there.” Ace moves to where I indicate, he will have a front row seat until it is his turn. I get Flat Nose to lean across the boulder. I watch her body tremble as I walk to the wall where all the instruments are hanging. I take down the whip and let it roll out. I have never held one before or used one for that matter. Excitement bubbles inside me. I experimentally strike out and whip the wall to get used to the feel of it in my hand; Flat Nose lets out a squeal at the sound of the whip. My eyes move to Ace and now his eyes shine with hate. “Don’t take your eyes off her back,” I say and whip the ground again, this time only ten feet away from Flat Nose. She cries out, expecting the blow but not receiving it. I smile, now this is fun. I hit the ground again about eight feet away from her, she doesn’t cry out this time but her body trembles. Her hands grip the wood like it will save her or lessen the blows. I hit the ground a few more times, building up her fear and my own anticipation. My stomach flutters with excitement. I want to see what will happen when the whip connects with her flesh; will it pull lumps out of it, or just open the skin. I want to hear her beg me to stop; I want to hear her screams. My breathing becomes laboured thinking about it. I continue hitting the floor.
    Her body shakes so hard now, but she can’t take much more. Her head swings back and her eyes burn into mine with pure hatred. “Just do it,” she screams, spit flicking from her mouth, her eyes widening with fear, with hate.
    She doesn’t have to ask me twice. I admire how she is taking charge, especially under the circumstances. I pull the whip back and strike her with all my force. Her screams at contact stop me from striking twice, my heart is racing, and her screams are of agony. Her blouse soon turns from white to red; a thin slash from the whip runs from the neck to her back, all the way down to her waist. The smell of blood mixed with urine overwhelms my senses. Her sobs are too much, too painful, a reminder of my own at the hands of my father. I want her to stop, I need her to stop.
    “Shush,” I whisper, covering my lips with one trembling finger. My own hysteria is growing as her cries fill the dungeon. The whip trembles in my hand, her sobs won’t stop. Stop, stop, my mind screams. But she won’t. I pull the whip back and strike her, sobs turn into screams. But I don’t stop this time, the rage inside me grows, and all I see is red as I continue to strike her in a frenzy. Tears pour down my face and I scream along with her at every blow. I can’t stop. I hate this world. I hate my parents. The whore who is trying