Animus Revertendi
After we returned from the summer holidays, the first event of the school year was the appointment of the new prefects. There was one for each house, all chosen among students of the class which was to graduate that year. It was not a surprise to anyone that C. had been chosen.
Something about this made me rebellious. I guess I did not want him too feel too secure in his position. I knew he would abuse it anyway, so I might as well feel that I had done something worthy of the punishment I would be dealt. Again I underestimated the extent he would go to.
This time I had disobeyed a direct order given in front of others. Actually it was several. I do not recall everything, but I do remember a few examples. He told me not to run in the hallways, which I had not really done, though I admit that I walked quite fast. I ignored him. He told me not to make a shortcut through the rose garden, through the bushes. I ignored him. I did not ask to be excused from the dinner table and ignored him when he told me to come back and do so. Each time there were several other people present, so he could take no immediate action. But as I left the table that evening, he stood up slowly, in front of everyone and told me that he would take no more of my insolence.
The prefects had their own office or meeting room of sorts, in the main building, on the little used third floor. It was typically wainscoted with dark wood, was furnished with a great long table and thick carpets. At the end of the table was a group of chairs and a sofa in front of a large fireplace. He had the key to this room.
I had been told to be there at a certain time, later that same evening. I knew he would make me wait, so I did not bother to be there on time, yet I still arrived before him. But he must have been watching from somewhere, because he knew I had not been there the entire time. He scolded me for it. He was carrying a tray with coffee, which he told me to hold, while he unlocked the door. When we entered, he nodded at the coffee table to signify that I was to put the tray there, which I did. He sat down in a tall-backed chair and poured up coffee for himself.
“Light a fire.”
I was confused as how to do so, but I tried. He looked at my preparations in silence. After several tries, I managed to get a somewhat proper fire going. He set aside his coffee cup and got up from his chair. He chose a poker from a rack by the fireplace, and preceded to rustle it apparently aimlessly about in the fire. I just stood there. He left the poker lying halfway into the fire, and stood there looking down at it for a while. Then he picked up the other two and arranged them in the same way. It dawned on me what he had in mind. He sat down again, and poured himself another cup. I remained in the same position, staring into the fire. It was getting darker outside. He did not say a word. Very slowly the iron took on a tinge of dark deep red along the edges. I had no illusions about the pain I was going to suffer. It would no doubt be excruciating. I made up my mind to do my best not to scream. No one would hear me anyway, it was getting late, and everyone would have left the main building. Besides, we were on the largely disused third floor, behind thick age-old stone walls and a heavy oak door. It would be useless, and I had another reason to be silent as well.
“You know what to do.”
Pretending ignorance would only delay the pain, not prevent it. I removed all clothing from my upper body. He had taken off his own jacket, and bent to find a pair of gloves in its pockets. He rolled up his sleeves and put on the gloves. This had been planned. He looked at me calculatingly.
“Will I need to tie you up?”
I honestly did not know. I shook my head.
He picked up the poker which had been put in the fire first, and went to stand behind me. I stood still, with my arms hanging down. The anticipation was awful. But if I thought that was terrible, it was nothing against the pain of the glowing metal. He ran the point of the poker slowly down over my spine. My skin sizzled nauseatingly, a rank burnt smell invading my nose. At that moment it was worse than anything he had ever done before. I could not keep my silence, but it was at least not a proper scream. Neither could I keep my body from moving instinctively away from the source of pain.
“Don’t move!”
I tried hard to steady myself. But when he repeated the same movement, my legs buckled and I fell to my knees.
“Very well. Are you going to stay in that position then?” He waited for a reply that I could not give, since I was busy concentrating deeply on breathing so that I would not scream. He stepped in front of my vision and pulled my face upwards by my hair.
“Are you?” He slapped me.
“I… don’t know.” I managed. I honestly did not.
“That’s not a proper reply. A gentleman must keep his resolve at all times.” He walked behind me again. The third time he moved the poker down along my spine, I crouched down on the floor, opening my mouth in a still silent scream. He made a small sound of discontent.
“Get up.”
I could not at that moment. The pain took too long to leave, and my mind could not perceive anything else while it was present.
“Do you hear me? Get up!”
I slowly began to rise, limb by limb.
“Are you going to stay standing this time or am I going to have to tie you up?”
I straightened my back as much as I was able to, and stared into the carpet.
“You’re going to stand…? I have my doubts about that, but we shall see…”
He exchanged the poker for another. This time it did not make it past the third vertebra, before my body tried to escape.
“Yes, that’s what I thought… You’re so disappointingly weak, Josie.” He sighed. “What will we have to do then?”
He had moved in front of me again. He slapped my face hard.
“I said; what are we going to have to do?” He grabbed me by my chin, and moved the poker close to my face.
I knew what he wanted me to say.
“You’re… going to have to tie me up.”
He nodded.
“Yes… See how much easier everything is if you just listen to me? To the table.”
I turned around and stumbled over to it.
“Hold out your arms.”
I did as he said. He ran a length of rope from one of my wrists, under the heavy table and over to the other, and tied it tightly around it. I was fully aware of how defenceless I was, lying there. But if I ever thought I could defend myself at any given time, I was deceiving myself. He loosened my trousers. I was almost relieved at the prospect of him already getting to this point, so he would not burn my skin again. But he moved away. I could only see him from out the corner of my eye from this position. He picked up a poker again. I hoped he would soon tire of them. This time he ran it horizontally first over my right shoulder blade, then over my left. I bit down hard on my lip. He continued in this way, slowly, in some intricate pattern down my back. I screamed in my throat, my lips closed tightly, my jaws clenched. Then he went away to change pokers again. I heard the faint ceramic tinkle of a coffee cup being put down. I allowed myself to gasp and breathe during the short break. He returned to the trail he had made down my spine. This time I could do nothing but scream. He just continued. And he did not stop tracing it along the ridge, moving lower. I managed to rear my head from the table, and beg him to stop. He looked at me with his eyebrows raised.
“Is that too much for you…? Well, I am reasonable. All you have to do is to desist in being so persistently stubborn all the time, and I will stop right now.”
I was not sure what he meant.
“Oh, you know what I mean. Your ridiculous insistence to never let a sound pass your lips, not allowing your body to feel what it does… Just let go… You know you have no control anyway.”
Well, if what it took to make him stop burning me, was my screams, then this time scream I would. He ran his fingers down the wounds of my back to encourage further sound. I felt so sullied by having complied with his wishes, even if it were such an comparatively small and easy thing. What made it so revolting, was that I could clearly feel how much he enjoyed it.
Leaning down over me, his shirt sticking in my wounds, he whispered.
“You are mine, do you hear me…? You will do as you are told.”
Afterwards, he released me from the ropes. Behind me, he cleaned up and put out the fire. My legs felt terribly weak as I tried to walk. I put on my clothes again, trying hard to ignore the ache these movements caused. He put his pullover and jacket on, to mask the stains on his shirt. He opened the door for me, and waited for me to leave. I walked so excruciatingly slowly. When I reached the door, he sighed, closed and locked the door behind us, and then grabbed hold of my arm, placed it over his shoulders, and proceeded to help me along the dark hallway and down the stairs. I wanted to remove myself from him, but I couldn’t find the strength to do so. When we reached the main doors, he let go of me, turned to me and looked at me strangely.
“Do try to walk with a little more dignity when you reach our house, just in case anyone is there. You wouldn’t want them to think any less of you than they already do.”
He left, walking much faster than I was able to. I was strangely grateful for that, then I would not have to spend anymore time in his company that night. There were a few people left in the common room as I entered. I walked with as much concentrated composure as I was able to. They hardly even glanced at me.
The scars were difficult to hide. Every movement induced great pain, when the slightest motion seemed to cause my skin to slide over the underlying bones and tissue. Whenever I leant back in a chair after it had happened, I would feel it. I could only sleep facing downwards. It continued like this for a long time, reminding me that I did not belong to myself. I am sure that is why he did it. But no one noticed. Thankfully, not even Miriam.
Something about this made me rebellious. I guess I did not want him too feel too secure in his position. I knew he would abuse it anyway, so I might as well feel that I had done something worthy of the punishment I would be dealt. Again I underestimated the extent he would go to.
This time I had disobeyed a direct order given in front of others. Actually it was several. I do not recall everything, but I do remember a few examples. He told me not to run in the hallways, which I had not really done, though I admit that I walked quite fast. I ignored him. He told me not to make a shortcut through the rose garden, through the bushes. I ignored him. I did not ask to be excused from the dinner table and ignored him when he told me to come back and do so. Each time there were several other people present, so he could take no immediate action. But as I left the table that evening, he stood up slowly, in front of everyone and told me that he would take no more of my insolence.
The prefects had their own office or meeting room of sorts, in the main building, on the little used third floor. It was typically wainscoted with dark wood, was furnished with a great long table and thick carpets. At the end of the table was a group of chairs and a sofa in front of a large fireplace. He had the key to this room.
I had been told to be there at a certain time, later that same evening. I knew he would make me wait, so I did not bother to be there on time, yet I still arrived before him. But he must have been watching from somewhere, because he knew I had not been there the entire time. He scolded me for it. He was carrying a tray with coffee, which he told me to hold, while he unlocked the door. When we entered, he nodded at the coffee table to signify that I was to put the tray there, which I did. He sat down in a tall-backed chair and poured up coffee for himself.
“Light a fire.”
I was confused as how to do so, but I tried. He looked at my preparations in silence. After several tries, I managed to get a somewhat proper fire going. He set aside his coffee cup and got up from his chair. He chose a poker from a rack by the fireplace, and preceded to rustle it apparently aimlessly about in the fire. I just stood there. He left the poker lying halfway into the fire, and stood there looking down at it for a while. Then he picked up the other two and arranged them in the same way. It dawned on me what he had in mind. He sat down again, and poured himself another cup. I remained in the same position, staring into the fire. It was getting darker outside. He did not say a word. Very slowly the iron took on a tinge of dark deep red along the edges. I had no illusions about the pain I was going to suffer. It would no doubt be excruciating. I made up my mind to do my best not to scream. No one would hear me anyway, it was getting late, and everyone would have left the main building. Besides, we were on the largely disused third floor, behind thick age-old stone walls and a heavy oak door. It would be useless, and I had another reason to be silent as well.
“You know what to do.”
Pretending ignorance would only delay the pain, not prevent it. I removed all clothing from my upper body. He had taken off his own jacket, and bent to find a pair of gloves in its pockets. He rolled up his sleeves and put on the gloves. This had been planned. He looked at me calculatingly.
“Will I need to tie you up?”
I honestly did not know. I shook my head.
He picked up the poker which had been put in the fire first, and went to stand behind me. I stood still, with my arms hanging down. The anticipation was awful. But if I thought that was terrible, it was nothing against the pain of the glowing metal. He ran the point of the poker slowly down over my spine. My skin sizzled nauseatingly, a rank burnt smell invading my nose. At that moment it was worse than anything he had ever done before. I could not keep my silence, but it was at least not a proper scream. Neither could I keep my body from moving instinctively away from the source of pain.
“Don’t move!”
I tried hard to steady myself. But when he repeated the same movement, my legs buckled and I fell to my knees.
“Very well. Are you going to stay in that position then?” He waited for a reply that I could not give, since I was busy concentrating deeply on breathing so that I would not scream. He stepped in front of my vision and pulled my face upwards by my hair.
“Are you?” He slapped me.
“I… don’t know.” I managed. I honestly did not.
“That’s not a proper reply. A gentleman must keep his resolve at all times.” He walked behind me again. The third time he moved the poker down along my spine, I crouched down on the floor, opening my mouth in a still silent scream. He made a small sound of discontent.
“Get up.”
I could not at that moment. The pain took too long to leave, and my mind could not perceive anything else while it was present.
“Do you hear me? Get up!”
I slowly began to rise, limb by limb.
“Are you going to stay standing this time or am I going to have to tie you up?”
I straightened my back as much as I was able to, and stared into the carpet.
“You’re going to stand…? I have my doubts about that, but we shall see…”
He exchanged the poker for another. This time it did not make it past the third vertebra, before my body tried to escape.
“Yes, that’s what I thought… You’re so disappointingly weak, Josie.” He sighed. “What will we have to do then?”
He had moved in front of me again. He slapped my face hard.
“I said; what are we going to have to do?” He grabbed me by my chin, and moved the poker close to my face.
I knew what he wanted me to say.
“You’re… going to have to tie me up.”
He nodded.
“Yes… See how much easier everything is if you just listen to me? To the table.”
I turned around and stumbled over to it.
“Hold out your arms.”
I did as he said. He ran a length of rope from one of my wrists, under the heavy table and over to the other, and tied it tightly around it. I was fully aware of how defenceless I was, lying there. But if I ever thought I could defend myself at any given time, I was deceiving myself. He loosened my trousers. I was almost relieved at the prospect of him already getting to this point, so he would not burn my skin again. But he moved away. I could only see him from out the corner of my eye from this position. He picked up a poker again. I hoped he would soon tire of them. This time he ran it horizontally first over my right shoulder blade, then over my left. I bit down hard on my lip. He continued in this way, slowly, in some intricate pattern down my back. I screamed in my throat, my lips closed tightly, my jaws clenched. Then he went away to change pokers again. I heard the faint ceramic tinkle of a coffee cup being put down. I allowed myself to gasp and breathe during the short break. He returned to the trail he had made down my spine. This time I could do nothing but scream. He just continued. And he did not stop tracing it along the ridge, moving lower. I managed to rear my head from the table, and beg him to stop. He looked at me with his eyebrows raised.
“Is that too much for you…? Well, I am reasonable. All you have to do is to desist in being so persistently stubborn all the time, and I will stop right now.”
I was not sure what he meant.
“Oh, you know what I mean. Your ridiculous insistence to never let a sound pass your lips, not allowing your body to feel what it does… Just let go… You know you have no control anyway.”
Well, if what it took to make him stop burning me, was my screams, then this time scream I would. He ran his fingers down the wounds of my back to encourage further sound. I felt so sullied by having complied with his wishes, even if it were such an comparatively small and easy thing. What made it so revolting, was that I could clearly feel how much he enjoyed it.
Leaning down over me, his shirt sticking in my wounds, he whispered.
“You are mine, do you hear me…? You will do as you are told.”
Afterwards, he released me from the ropes. Behind me, he cleaned up and put out the fire. My legs felt terribly weak as I tried to walk. I put on my clothes again, trying hard to ignore the ache these movements caused. He put his pullover and jacket on, to mask the stains on his shirt. He opened the door for me, and waited for me to leave. I walked so excruciatingly slowly. When I reached the door, he sighed, closed and locked the door behind us, and then grabbed hold of my arm, placed it over his shoulders, and proceeded to help me along the dark hallway and down the stairs. I wanted to remove myself from him, but I couldn’t find the strength to do so. When we reached the main doors, he let go of me, turned to me and looked at me strangely.
“Do try to walk with a little more dignity when you reach our house, just in case anyone is there. You wouldn’t want them to think any less of you than they already do.”
He left, walking much faster than I was able to. I was strangely grateful for that, then I would not have to spend anymore time in his company that night. There were a few people left in the common room as I entered. I walked with as much concentrated composure as I was able to. They hardly even glanced at me.
The scars were difficult to hide. Every movement induced great pain, when the slightest motion seemed to cause my skin to slide over the underlying bones and tissue. Whenever I leant back in a chair after it had happened, I would feel it. I could only sleep facing downwards. It continued like this for a long time, reminding me that I did not belong to myself. I am sure that is why he did it. But no one noticed. Thankfully, not even Miriam.