Post by Idaeus nó Mandrake on Aug 7, 2007 19:39:19 GMT -5
I walked into the front door of Désir, taking a rare afternoon lunch. I was not in the mood for Mandrake's food today, though it was usually well prepared. It was lunch hour so there were plenty of customers.
I had barely stepped through the door when I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. Sitting at one of the tables was my mother. While she had aged a little, time had been kind to her and she did not look much different then how I remembered her.
Without thinking I sat at the closest empty table to hers. If she looked up she would no doubt see me. I ordered a touch of food and some wine, my interest now in something other than food.
My mother truly was a thing of beauty; no matter how I felt for her I could not deny that. Her long hair was a pale blond, almost white but with a touch of golden to give it a sheen that mine did not hold. She had the same eyes as me, pale blue; though her eyes seemed to accent her features instead of make them cold like mine did. Her dainty nose sat proudly on her face above a pair of heart shaped lips that where perfectly proportioned to the rest of her face. I was not the only one watching her as she openly flirted with a cousin that I only vaguely remembered. She showed warmth to that girl that she never showed me or my father. It showed in her eyes and the caress that she gave the girl’s face. I was surprisingly jealous and found myself gripping my wine glass almost to the point of breakage.
When I noticed I put down the glass and sighed. I was much too old for this. I had not seen her since I was 10 years of age. That was a long time ago. I did not want her to have the ability to control my emotions like she had when I was a child. Besides, my life at Mandrake was more pleasent than one I would of had living with her.
I was getting ready to call the waitress so I could pay and leave when my mother finally tore her loving gaze from her cousin and looked up at me. I paused for a moment to see if she would notice me. She glanced around the room, those pale eyes reading the faces around her. She paused for a moment at my face, since I was looking at her openly. She rested her gaze there for only half a second before moving on, not a moment of recognition in those eyes. One of my hands involuntarily clutched into a fist, that demon that birthed me did not even recognize me. My matching eyes and unusually feminine features that I inherited from her didn’t mean anything to her. She had erased me out of her mind, the bratty child who did not deserve to be one of her own. Those where the last words she had said to me as my father drug me away to dump me off at whichever house would accept me.
I seethed for a moment before taking a breath and unclenching my hand. I looked down at it, though my nails where trimmed I had managed to cut my skin deep enough to draw blood. Four half moon cuts stared back at me, mocking me. I was nothing more than a slave of Mandrake, though I held my own marque. My parents made their own money with land that they owned, and they denied me that by disowning me. It would have been different if they sent me to Mandrake to find my way, but still accepted me as their own. I knew plenty of Mandrakes who were there in that capacity. Once they where done at Mandrake they would return home a new life awaiting them. Me, I was trapped there, my only skills in pleasuring others, abandoned by my flesh and blood.
I looked up from my bloodly palm to my mother again. Memories flooded me then, images of her. My mother with a whip and me crouched on the floor naked and bleeding. Another vision of me tied in the cellar with nothing but my own imagination to keep me company. And the last altercation between us, the one that paved my way to Mandrake.
In my mind I was sitting at the family table telling one of my mother’s friends that she was a sniveling old hag, a phrase I had recently heard my mother use behind closed doors. My mother looked aghast as the lady asked where I had learned such language. I simply smiled and I pointed at her, my mother. The lady turned to my mother, said a few words, and then left. The rest of my parents’ guests watched the entire scene in silence. I left the room then, my head held high. I didn’t know it, but my mother was following me. As soon as the door closed behind me I felt her grab me by the hair. I kicked and tried to pull lose but she was drug me into her room. I was tied to her bed, after much struggling, rear end and back up. I had managed to break her nose in the struggle and she screamed at me about not being able to return to the dinner. She then went to her vanity and pulled out a set of flachettes. I knew that she had them for she had threatened me with them many times. This was the first time she decided to actually use them on me. I screamed when I saw them, but she quickly gagged me and no one heard. She pulled out a large knife and tore away my clothes with it, baring my pale skin. She then proceeded to write things into my back with them, telling me what she was writing as she did so. My mother knew how to use them well, and I could feel every letter of every word she claimed to write. I decided then that I would give into her pain no longer. I had built an immunity to it and I would use it to my advantage. I stopped trying to scream through the gag and pulled my emotions into myself so that no one would ever witness them again. After a little while I started laughing at her, which only angered her more.
Pain has a way of stopping time, and I couldn't remember how long I was in there. She tried to find ways to make me scream and I just laughed into the gag. At some point she gave up, and stormed out, leaving me there to bleed on her bed. When she left my instinct to fight back no longer kept me awake and I passed out, both from emotional stress and a loss of blood.
This memory was reawakening itself in my head when I felt a hand on my arm. I whirled around, ready to throw my glass at whomever it was.
I had barely stepped through the door when I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. Sitting at one of the tables was my mother. While she had aged a little, time had been kind to her and she did not look much different then how I remembered her.
Without thinking I sat at the closest empty table to hers. If she looked up she would no doubt see me. I ordered a touch of food and some wine, my interest now in something other than food.
My mother truly was a thing of beauty; no matter how I felt for her I could not deny that. Her long hair was a pale blond, almost white but with a touch of golden to give it a sheen that mine did not hold. She had the same eyes as me, pale blue; though her eyes seemed to accent her features instead of make them cold like mine did. Her dainty nose sat proudly on her face above a pair of heart shaped lips that where perfectly proportioned to the rest of her face. I was not the only one watching her as she openly flirted with a cousin that I only vaguely remembered. She showed warmth to that girl that she never showed me or my father. It showed in her eyes and the caress that she gave the girl’s face. I was surprisingly jealous and found myself gripping my wine glass almost to the point of breakage.
When I noticed I put down the glass and sighed. I was much too old for this. I had not seen her since I was 10 years of age. That was a long time ago. I did not want her to have the ability to control my emotions like she had when I was a child. Besides, my life at Mandrake was more pleasent than one I would of had living with her.
I was getting ready to call the waitress so I could pay and leave when my mother finally tore her loving gaze from her cousin and looked up at me. I paused for a moment to see if she would notice me. She glanced around the room, those pale eyes reading the faces around her. She paused for a moment at my face, since I was looking at her openly. She rested her gaze there for only half a second before moving on, not a moment of recognition in those eyes. One of my hands involuntarily clutched into a fist, that demon that birthed me did not even recognize me. My matching eyes and unusually feminine features that I inherited from her didn’t mean anything to her. She had erased me out of her mind, the bratty child who did not deserve to be one of her own. Those where the last words she had said to me as my father drug me away to dump me off at whichever house would accept me.
I seethed for a moment before taking a breath and unclenching my hand. I looked down at it, though my nails where trimmed I had managed to cut my skin deep enough to draw blood. Four half moon cuts stared back at me, mocking me. I was nothing more than a slave of Mandrake, though I held my own marque. My parents made their own money with land that they owned, and they denied me that by disowning me. It would have been different if they sent me to Mandrake to find my way, but still accepted me as their own. I knew plenty of Mandrakes who were there in that capacity. Once they where done at Mandrake they would return home a new life awaiting them. Me, I was trapped there, my only skills in pleasuring others, abandoned by my flesh and blood.
I looked up from my bloodly palm to my mother again. Memories flooded me then, images of her. My mother with a whip and me crouched on the floor naked and bleeding. Another vision of me tied in the cellar with nothing but my own imagination to keep me company. And the last altercation between us, the one that paved my way to Mandrake.
In my mind I was sitting at the family table telling one of my mother’s friends that she was a sniveling old hag, a phrase I had recently heard my mother use behind closed doors. My mother looked aghast as the lady asked where I had learned such language. I simply smiled and I pointed at her, my mother. The lady turned to my mother, said a few words, and then left. The rest of my parents’ guests watched the entire scene in silence. I left the room then, my head held high. I didn’t know it, but my mother was following me. As soon as the door closed behind me I felt her grab me by the hair. I kicked and tried to pull lose but she was drug me into her room. I was tied to her bed, after much struggling, rear end and back up. I had managed to break her nose in the struggle and she screamed at me about not being able to return to the dinner. She then went to her vanity and pulled out a set of flachettes. I knew that she had them for she had threatened me with them many times. This was the first time she decided to actually use them on me. I screamed when I saw them, but she quickly gagged me and no one heard. She pulled out a large knife and tore away my clothes with it, baring my pale skin. She then proceeded to write things into my back with them, telling me what she was writing as she did so. My mother knew how to use them well, and I could feel every letter of every word she claimed to write. I decided then that I would give into her pain no longer. I had built an immunity to it and I would use it to my advantage. I stopped trying to scream through the gag and pulled my emotions into myself so that no one would ever witness them again. After a little while I started laughing at her, which only angered her more.
Pain has a way of stopping time, and I couldn't remember how long I was in there. She tried to find ways to make me scream and I just laughed into the gag. At some point she gave up, and stormed out, leaving me there to bleed on her bed. When she left my instinct to fight back no longer kept me awake and I passed out, both from emotional stress and a loss of blood.
This memory was reawakening itself in my head when I felt a hand on my arm. I whirled around, ready to throw my glass at whomever it was.