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Get me a chair. I want to sit down - said the willowy elferina. Someone grabbed a petit point Queen Anne chair from a corner near the Baldwin concert grand and silently placed it near her. She sat down. Her hands were shaking. She asked for a drink. Elferina-Vampirinas can imbibe certain liquids. They do drink blood, after all. Oh, not milk. Not juice. Not broth. Not anything we'd recognize as food. But various forms of distilled or fermented beverages fill the need quite well. Roland was used to this. He passed her a fine, old, sterling flask. Some attribute it to Paul Revere, but I cannot vouch for that. I believe it held some sort of vodka...perhaps a flavored Grey Goose. I know she liked the bottles. So she screwed off the lid and drank. Some present were startled to see a young girl, or what looked like a young girl, drink like that. But please understand that is not what she is. Marianne sees the world through knowing eyes. Oh, she still has a natural, child-like innocence at times...but only at times.
Then she resealed the flash, closed her eyes and continued....... To this very night, I know not how long I stayed in that hole. They fed me gruel in a dirty bucket.....Just enough to keep me alive. Mustn't deprive the fires. A priest came in from time to time. He asked me to recant. He asked me to take vows. But I was unschooled in such matters and knew not what to say. So they labeled me a succubus , or a witchling, or some other troublesome demon.
There were other martyrs in that place. I did not know it then, but I found out later.....after my.... nocturnal debut. 'Jugged Hares' they called them...entombed in small niches, resembling nothing so much as standing coffins. Food (such as it was) and water ran in through a narrow opening about two or three feet over the victims head. A similar opening in the floor caught the slops. There was no way out. They were bricked in. Well, actually they used rough, gray stones, but you get the picture. Victims stood, or leaned against the walls till the skin on their feet fell away. Legs swelled like balloons. Can you imagine, feverishly trying to scrap dung and piss down that little hole with torn, red, blood-soaked feet? Thank God that was not me.
Though I was tortured. To what end, I cannot say. There was nothing I could tell them. I suppose they did it for fun. Two men would come for me. Each time I expected the flames. But that was yet to be. They ripped off my tunic and washed me in a cold, bronze tub. An old woman, a matron of sorts, kept watch. She'd chuckle and say - Careful, careful, don't rub the naughty bits...... And the men would just laugh. Why was I bathed? Well, mustn't spread contagion to my innocent tormentors. Mustn't do that........ Let's see. What games did they like best. Hot pinchers was a favorite. But being young and tender, I passed out much too quickly.
Did you know it is possible to tickle someone to death? Especially if the 'tickle master' is well versed in the art. First they laid me on a table and anointed my skin with oil. Then came the 'touching'...... a brushing.....a caress, followed by pleasure. That part was sublime. But all good things must pass. Soon I laughed and shrieked like a mad woman...for I could hardly breath. Coughing comes next. Then choking. They'd stop for a while. But then they'd start again.
Perfumed grandees, the sons of magnates and what not, slithered down to watch the proceedings and bet on my demise. But I did not die, although I heaved up buckets full of blood. And they'd toss semi-precious stones to my tormentors, as 'thank yous' for such entertaining delights.
The worst part came later. They'd wrap me in a dirty tunic and throw me in the cell. The rats can smell the blood. The rats can smell the sweat. But movement seemed to keep them away. So I'd run from wall to wall, scrapping against the stones...till I could run no more.....
Death would have been like paradise.....
<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~< M >~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>
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Then she resealed the flash, closed her eyes and continued....... To this very night, I know not how long I stayed in that hole. They fed me gruel in a dirty bucket.....Just enough to keep me alive. Mustn't deprive the fires. A priest came in from time to time. He asked me to recant. He asked me to take vows. But I was unschooled in such matters and knew not what to say. So they labeled me a succubus , or a witchling, or some other troublesome demon.
There were other martyrs in that place. I did not know it then, but I found out later.....after my.... nocturnal debut. 'Jugged Hares' they called them...entombed in small niches, resembling nothing so much as standing coffins. Food (such as it was) and water ran in through a narrow opening about two or three feet over the victims head. A similar opening in the floor caught the slops. There was no way out. They were bricked in. Well, actually they used rough, gray stones, but you get the picture. Victims stood, or leaned against the walls till the skin on their feet fell away. Legs swelled like balloons. Can you imagine, feverishly trying to scrap dung and piss down that little hole with torn, red, blood-soaked feet? Thank God that was not me.
Though I was tortured. To what end, I cannot say. There was nothing I could tell them. I suppose they did it for fun. Two men would come for me. Each time I expected the flames. But that was yet to be. They ripped off my tunic and washed me in a cold, bronze tub. An old woman, a matron of sorts, kept watch. She'd chuckle and say - Careful, careful, don't rub the naughty bits...... And the men would just laugh. Why was I bathed? Well, mustn't spread contagion to my innocent tormentors. Mustn't do that........ Let's see. What games did they like best. Hot pinchers was a favorite. But being young and tender, I passed out much too quickly.
Did you know it is possible to tickle someone to death? Especially if the 'tickle master' is well versed in the art. First they laid me on a table and anointed my skin with oil. Then came the 'touching'...... a brushing.....a caress, followed by pleasure. That part was sublime. But all good things must pass. Soon I laughed and shrieked like a mad woman...for I could hardly breath. Coughing comes next. Then choking. They'd stop for a while. But then they'd start again.
Perfumed grandees, the sons of magnates and what not, slithered down to watch the proceedings and bet on my demise. But I did not die, although I heaved up buckets full of blood. And they'd toss semi-precious stones to my tormentors, as 'thank yous' for such entertaining delights.
The worst part came later. They'd wrap me in a dirty tunic and throw me in the cell. The rats can smell the blood. The rats can smell the sweat. But movement seemed to keep them away. So I'd run from wall to wall, scrapping against the stones...till I could run no more.....
Death would have been like paradise.....
<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~< M >~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>
please hit the SHARE button. help the story live. favor us with a COMMENT. Adieu and good night.
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