How To Torture A Masochist

There had always been something about Iris Moor.

Something so destructively alluring, like the blazing flames of a fire, too tempting not to be touched, ignorant to the fact it could mar one’s skin for the whole world to see.

Something innocently crippling, just like the glowing ball of light upon the wild blue yonder, luring to be gazed into, despite one’s knowledge its false divinity could steal man’s sight.

That’s what Iris was to me.

A siren’s song, moulded in the skins of morality. Illumination in an existence of darkness. A shine so bright, I couldn’t look away, not even when I’d known she’d blind me.

And you know what they said about one’s sight. Once gone, it would never come back.

And that was exactly what’d happened to the fool that was me.

Now, my eyesight belonged to Iris and there was nothing I could do to change it, to break free of the spell cast upon me.

Heedless to my berating thoughts, I watched on as the fire-haired woman carried herself across the small marketplace of Forstal. A backwoods village, tucked away in the mountains of Germania like only a father would his bastard son.

Children’s laughter dominated as the familiar sounds of dragging carriages and villagers’ lively chatter filled the background of the idyllic scene. Chickens gawked, dogs barked and nothing seemed out of place.

The scents of freshly baked goods and meat, smelling like it had been left in the scorching heat for days, mixed with the stench of open sewage and sweat-covered bodies rushing by. Despite the large tarp above my head, shielding me from the sun’s unrelenting force, it dripped out of every pore. The linen of my hooded tunic was drenched and clung uncomfortably to the sticky skin beneath. But I didn’t mind, I was used to it.

The tower’s bell announced the fleeting pass of time. Yet, surrounded by Forstal’s fraudulent facade of peace and perfection, it never passed fast enough for me.

Unless she was here.

Then, time didn’t seem to exist. Nothing existed besides the warm smile, no one deserved, and the eyes that evoked memories of lush pastures and forests in spring.

With purpose in her confident stride and a feral looking dog on her heels, she gifted recognition to anyone who met her eye. Around her, it was impossible to feel invisible. You couldn’t hide. It was one of those things I despised most.

Iris frequently stopped next to the ones discarded by society, giving whatever goods she collected in the Ganlan Woods. It consisted mostly of medicinal herbs and roots, or the skins of rabbits which she must’ve hunted down herself.

She seemed to be the only one who left the market with less than what she’d come with, apart from the vendors and farmers, obviously, travelling around the nearby villages with the sole purpose to sell their goods and gain coin.

Yet, the outcast never asked the ones in need for anything in return and it chewed on my mind. No human was that selfless. We always counted our gain, and she surely was no different. Just much better at masking it.

The young woman had an attentive ear for crazed Jared’s tales whenever their paths would meet. No matter how often he repeated the same old story, over and over again, Iris never seemed bored. Instead, she stood next to his crouched form and bestowed him with unconditional patience. After he talked no more, she touched his shoulder tenderly in goodbye, getting on with her day, apparently without ever noticing the content glint, left behind in the lonely man’s gaze.

Showing kindness and forgiveness, even to the ones that didn’t deserve nor want it, she moved with her head held high as if her ears couldn’t catch what their mouths spat. Shaking my head, I never understood her apparent fondness for such despicable species.

Overhearing the miller’s wife talking to a flock of women, I ripped my sights off Iris and directed them to the little group near me. They hung eagerly on the fat woman’s thin lips. Couldn’t miss the latest talk of town now, could they?

The old hag spread her hearsay quietly, but never quiet enough.

“Well, Miss Leya saw her stalking one of the orphan boys last week. Can you believe, the hellcat even gave him bread? The colour of pitch it had, Miss Leya swore, and the young lass took it without thinking. Only yesterday his heart stopped beating. Fever, they say...”

“Poor bastard. How fortunate, Mister Moor didn’t live to see what she’s become.”

The blacksmith’s widow responded with hollow compassion, obviously finding joy in others’ despair. That was something a dark part of me usually understood.

“God’s judgment won’t bypass that harpy. And then she’ll burn on the stake, for the whole of Forstal to see. Mark my words. Yes, mark my words.”

The bitterly lonely woman was too old to walk, but not to talk.

What a shame.

I couldn’t help to imagine the expression upon her face, would I remove her tongue with nothing but a wooden spoon. I wondered how long it would take me, and if the old hag would stay conscious long enough to see her dismembered organ within the palm of my hand.

My heartbeat elevated and my hands clawed subconsciously into the ragged fabric covering my thighs. Saliva flooded my tongue, as it normally would, come dinner time.

I’d used to deny my urges, back when I’d still been young and naive, judging them as wrong and unnatural. But that time of my life laid far behind me. I’d matured since, approaching the beginning of my thirties now.

These days, I understood the Lord had given me purpose.

Purpose, I was finally fulfilling.