I Deserve This

The bodies were hauled outside and stacked, yet the splattered red remained for long after. The blood fiercely embraced the floor, the walls, and in some cases, even the ceiling, slowly making its way down en masse. While I was scrubbing the tiles I could feel a drop land on my head, every once in a while.

The crimson liquid would snake along my face with a firm drive to get to my chin. Smooth forehead, avoid the eyes, the slant of my nose. When the drop of blood would run down my lips and stay stagnant, I felt like the queen. Lipstick was suited to her, and only for her. My fake coloring tasted like iron and smelled of death, it was meant for the wicked.

The work was hard but it was peaceful. If you ignored the wails and whimpers of the others that is. Mom always told me to hold my head high and bear the pain in silence. And I did.

My back was straight, diligently cleaning the chunks of flesh and gore out of the deepest cracks until the tips of my fingers were chafe and bleeding themselves.

How ironic.

But it is silly to waste clean bandages on hands that will lie cold in just a while. I deserve the painted fingertips.

Blood released itself from my hands the more I worked, each scrub brought more suffering. The agony from my fingers is nothing compared to what will happen later, it is only the prelude. Focus on the task you were given, I push the pain from my mind. It makes this whole ordeal much less painful when you restrain yourself from sobbing and clutching the arms of the only family you’ve ever known and loved. I swab bloody tiles off to the side to spare myself from the heartbreak, but it isn’t much better.

You deserve this, so stop thinking and do your work.

I am not angry in the least, although I will definitely miss the palace and all of its friendly inhabitants. I am calm because I knew this would happen, all the bad women deserve what would proceed us slaves. I am horrible, I am traitorous. I am merely paying for my crime because I deserve this.

A piercing scream came from upstairs where another betrayer was being hung up on the rafters, bound and strung. Eyes widened and faces paled. Fear forced out loud cries, but we were quickly silenced by a low voice echoing from the corner. I did not need to look up to see that our master was boiling, fists clenched.

“SHUT UP SINFUL CRIMINALS, DO AS I DESPAIRINGLY DEMAND UNTIL I RID MYSELF FROM TREACHEROUS FILTH. CRYING WILL ONLY BRING ABOUT MORE TEARS, SAVE IT FOR HADES’ LAIR. ”

He was right.

A chill spread across the cavernous room. It caused obedience and shame. It caused the clinks of pails to be set on the floor and cloth to be released from tired hands. It caused the gods to sneer from the edge of their pedestals at watch with cruel eyes as we locked our eyes to the floor and swept out skirt into a deep bow, forehead centimeters from the polished floor.

“Yes, master.”

A look of disgust crossed his intelligent face, and he turned his back on us shameful women. His hand perked up from beneath his heavy shroud and motioned for us to follow. To disobey meant death. To obey meant death. My body swayed and I followed our master, it will be penance for my terrible terrible crimes. I deserve this.

The other girls must’ve thought of themselves as saints, for they spun on their heel and sprinted to the door of the recently cleaned room. Desperate hands slammed into the sturdy door, trying to unhinge it.

Screams and banging.

“Oh help us, help us! We have done nothing wrong, it was not our fault that we were taken advantage of by those nasty people.” The liars sobbed, tears staining the wooden door. Fingers scratched and clawed to release them but to no avail, they were trapped.

It was our fault, all our fault. It is best to face the truth with our heads high.

Once the wicked girls realized that they were not able to get out, they threw themselves to the floor. Professions of innocence poured off of their terrified bodies, they thought themselves as saints. Saints, reaching to master’s knees while shaking, apologizing again. With arms caked in dry blood they are grasping, gripping, groveling before him.

They believe that they are the epitome of goodness, holy and pure.

But they are wrong, because they are not saints.

Saints do not spout lies and grovel when facing punishment, they will calmly accept the justice delivered. For what has been done is sincerely wrong if master says so. We do not think for ourselves, angelic dolls that are meant to assist. They do not realize that, so I guess I am the real saint here.

How ironic.

A thin laugh escapes master’s lips. He looks down on the degenerate trash that is moaning at his feet but says nothing. He does not need to say anything to communicate that all of us will end, no matter what we do.

I deserve this. I will face my death like a saint, I will become one.

His smile is still plastered on his face when we are lead outside. The sun is beneath the horizon and it is lonely here. Solemn trees stand silent and the cold grasps at the skin around my neck with some bizarre knowledge of the future.

Or else I’m just imagining it, from the shoveling of corpses earlier I know that the dead are always cold.

We are instructed to our places. Guiltless slaves keep the hesitant ones from fleeing. They are antsy, shuffling, they don’t want to die. I don’t want to die either. But the difference is that I know that I must…

Because I deserve this.

I draw in a breath when he slips the noose around our necks. Our master stalks down the line, making sure that the rope is tied just the way he likes it. The twelve of us are given special attention to make sure that our necks don’t snap right away, that would not be good enough.

Master signals his servants, he seems excited for this. I don’t blame him, a mass killing must be pretty interesting for such a lonely courtyard.

I wonder if I’ll go to...

No, I am not allowed to ascend. I am not even allowed to think about achieving eternal bliss because I am a bad woman. I am a bad woman.

And suddenly, all the bad women all paid their dues.

A dozen eggs were gathered this morning, a dozen buckets clattered to floor at night.

Instant pain, rope digging into my skin, I couldn’t breathe. My hands flew to my throat and scratched. Nails ripping through the soft flesh that was still warm.

I deserve this.

Feet kicked, my body writhed in pain. Blistering skin, blood slowing.

I deserve this.

Hands dropped, it was like hot bricks were fastened to my knuckles but I could not scream. I was choking and gasping, I need air, I need air.

I deserve this.

Pressure. Stones in my head. Stones on my feet. Stones haphazardly shoved into my throat, fit in all odd angles up to the brim, poking into my sides and lungs and brain and heart---

Pressure.

Mom once said that all who sin must be punished for the world to see. The only thing missing here is a stage above a cheering crowd.

That, and a real judge to announce to the crowd that we are innocent.

A girl can share a dream, but never shall she share in sleep with the enemy.

Regardless

Of

Why

She

Did

It.