Post by Shiloh Shahrizai de Garnier on Mar 30, 2010 2:38:43 GMT -5
The City of Elua unfolded for me like a bloom in the morning dew. The crowds were faceless, empty people and yet I did not feel lonely. To be my own man, to start anew. I could breathe freely now with my father dead and though my mother lurked like a viper in the grass, ready to strike, I had removed myself from such things. Though she was a widow now, no likely telling her story to whoever was willing to sympathize with her and hear it, I felt very little sadness for her loss. Sometimes I even wondered if she loved my father at all. Though it was not like any of that mattered anymore, none of that defined me or who I was. I was my own person, set aside from her overbearing personality and her clutches. Neither Shahrizai nor Garnier, Kusheline nor Siovalese. In the City of Elua I could have been anything, anyone, who knew if I was a Skaldi halfbreed or a Caerdicci merchant. With everything I owned on my back, my tools of the trade and all I needed to survive ingrained in my mind--the mixtures, the cuts, the sutures that I had been taught, I only needed to flex a muscle in my hand to feel the rhythm, the practical singing of my body with each clench to feel the muscle memory that was laid within it, knowing exactly what to do. I thought of this all in a hazy, intoxicated and pungent air of mixtures I had made for my patient that day.
He had a beautiful voice and a glorious set of lungs that sent his screams into my head, almost like the sound of a woman shrieking with pleasure. Pleasure, pain. There was very little difference when it came to what I thought and what I felt and what I could make someone feel. How easy to flick one’s wrist from a loving caress to a chokehold. The human body was absolutely amazing and to be part divinity, however a small amount, only continued to fascinate me. What a beautiful creation the human body was and seeing the young man, writhing on my table, half held down by his father and half held down by my ropes, I could not help but smirk a little.
Held down by his father telling him to be strong, his mother was trying not to tear as I continued to stitch up his wound, already in pain from the balm that I had put into the festering hole. I loved to see his muscles twitch, the drop of blood that slipped past his lips as he tried to hold back another scream. I deliberately poked a little harder the next time I entered his skin, releasing another noise of pain. I could not help but find myself more than amused, trying to keep the smile off of my face, but his tears were absolutely too amusing. I knew what would elicit what response and to know something so intricate so well... it was hard not to feel a slight amount of power. I wondered if he knew just how he looked, in that moment, the shame he would feel if he had. As I finished, I began to wrap the wound, hearing his sniffling and I could only sigh a little bit. Pity, I had hoped it would last just a tad longer.
“Your son will be fine physically, though to be honest, he is a bit pathetic to have cried such an amount. I have dealt with children who handled it better.”
It was merely my own observation of the situation, not that I was mocking him or his family and I could hear the woman shrieking a bit at my insensitivity, though I drowned it out as I walked out of their house and into the bustling streets of the city. Weak shells of such fragile lives were before me. I only wondered how much amusement I could find in each one.
He had a beautiful voice and a glorious set of lungs that sent his screams into my head, almost like the sound of a woman shrieking with pleasure. Pleasure, pain. There was very little difference when it came to what I thought and what I felt and what I could make someone feel. How easy to flick one’s wrist from a loving caress to a chokehold. The human body was absolutely amazing and to be part divinity, however a small amount, only continued to fascinate me. What a beautiful creation the human body was and seeing the young man, writhing on my table, half held down by his father and half held down by my ropes, I could not help but smirk a little.
Held down by his father telling him to be strong, his mother was trying not to tear as I continued to stitch up his wound, already in pain from the balm that I had put into the festering hole. I loved to see his muscles twitch, the drop of blood that slipped past his lips as he tried to hold back another scream. I deliberately poked a little harder the next time I entered his skin, releasing another noise of pain. I could not help but find myself more than amused, trying to keep the smile off of my face, but his tears were absolutely too amusing. I knew what would elicit what response and to know something so intricate so well... it was hard not to feel a slight amount of power. I wondered if he knew just how he looked, in that moment, the shame he would feel if he had. As I finished, I began to wrap the wound, hearing his sniffling and I could only sigh a little bit. Pity, I had hoped it would last just a tad longer.
“Your son will be fine physically, though to be honest, he is a bit pathetic to have cried such an amount. I have dealt with children who handled it better.”
It was merely my own observation of the situation, not that I was mocking him or his family and I could hear the woman shrieking a bit at my insensitivity, though I drowned it out as I walked out of their house and into the bustling streets of the city. Weak shells of such fragile lives were before me. I only wondered how much amusement I could find in each one.