Thy Kingdom Come

“Get up!”

My groggy brain takes a moment to come to, but when it does, I wish I could slip into a coma and never wake.

“I said, get up!”

Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I quickly pull back the scratchy blanket on my single bed and get into position—on my knees. This is what’s expected of me, and if I don’t obey, I get punished. And so does everyone I love.

Which is the only reason I submit. It’s the reason I do the despicable things that I do.

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

It’s too late by the time I realize what I’ve said. I pay for my error with a slap to my cheek. My head snaps to the left with a sharp crack.

“What did ya say?”

“Where’s wh-what…m-master?” I repeat, my eyes downcast.

“Aye, that’s better,” he says happily. My humiliation gives him great pleasure. “The brooch.”

Keeping my nerves under control, I lick my dry lips. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen it. The last time—”

“Shut yer bake,” he interrupts, not appreciating my lies. “Yer full of shite. Where is thon brooch?”

I prepared myself for this situation as I knew it was coming. By giving the brooch back to Punky, I knew what it would mean for me. But I’ll deal with the repercussions because I did the right thing—for once.

“I don’t know.”

The silence is heavy. I brace for what comes next.

“Ya need reminding of yer place?” I don’t know why he phrased it as a question because there are no choices. That privilege was stripped from me when I agreed to sell my soul to the devil.

My silence usually pleases him, but not today.

He slaps my other cheek, hollering when I grunt under the force. Yet I still don’t snitch. This earns me a punch to my stomach. Groaning, I fold in half, attempting to catch my breath.

“I’ll ask ye again, where is it?”

Gasping for air, I measure my breathing until eventually, I come back into an upright position. This just enrages him further. He wants me to surrender, but I can’t. He wants me to break, but it’s going to take a lot more than him beating me black and blue to break my spirit.

I will withstand everything he delivers because it brings me one step closer to why I’m here. There is only one person who matters; they’re the reason for all of this.

“I-I don’t know.”

“Fine, have it yer way then.”

I hear the familiar sound which no longer scares me—his belt unfastening and slipping through the beltloops.

“Take it off,” he orders, and I don’t resist. What would be the point? It just delays the inevitable.

Slipping the thin nightgown over my head, I cover my modesty as best I can, but it doesn’t matter. He’s seen it all. He’s humiliated me in every possible way that there is.

“Look at the bleedin’ state of ya. Yer disgusting.”

The belt cracks across my back, a fresh lash added to the ones he delivered three days ago. Flinching, I bite down on my tongue so hard, I taste blood. But I don’t cry out for help because who would help me? I’m alone.

Again, he whips me, this time across my arse. The pain is excruciating, but still, I don’t scream. I know if I just submit the torture will stop, but if I do that, he wins. Therefore, I will endure every punch, slap, bite, and whip he inflicts because each one proves that I’m stronger than him.

I’ll never admit defeat.

He whips me again and again, screaming that I’m to surrender.

In response, I don’t make a sound. I don’t move.

The belt drops to the hard floor and I close my eyes as I know what comes next. He kicks me in the ribs, before stomping on my calf. But he never punches me in the face because he doesn’t want anyone to see what a monster he truly is.

My injuries are easily covered because he’s a coward; a coward who will pay for everything he’s done.

With one final blow to my ribs, he exhales, tipping his face to the ceiling, elated by the violence he’s caused. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. He comes to stand in front of me, roughly gripping my chin and arching my neck back so I can look up at him.

I don’t cry.

I don’t scream.

I simply exist for the day he’ll suffer at my hands.

He rubs his thumb over my bottom lip, a feral look reflected in his cold blue eyes. “There’s more than one way to make ye talk.”

He forces his thumb into my mouth, slipping it in and out, a clear i

He removes his thumb, which he replaces with two fingers. He forces them down my throat and when I gag, he hums in approval. He awkwardly tugs down his trousers, freeing his revolting cock and forcing me to gag for another reason.

As he strokes over his swollen shaft, he continues to work his fingers in and out of my mouth, grunting as the tempo gets faster and faster.

It takes all my willpower not to bite down, not to gnaw off this motherfucker’s fingers and reveal why I’m really here. But not yet. It’s not time. I refuse to let all of this be for nothing. I’m their only hope.

This is only a shell; one he can break time and time again. But he’ll never take my will to survive. And survive, I will.

So, I watch uninterested as the corded veins in his neck pop, him grunting and jerking himself off with that poor excuse of a cock. We never break eye contact as he wants me to yield.

In response, I smirk around his fingers, a clear fuck you.

He roars, angered, forcing my mouth open as he yanks down on my bottom jaw. My mouth is hinged ajar, his fingers down my throat. I gag violently, which is what he wanted. With three quick pumps, he removes his fingers and comes inside my mouth, grunting fervently.

Just as I’m about to spit, he cups my chin, pressing my mouth shut. He then pinches my nose, knowing sooner or later, I’ll need to breathe.

My cheeks grow hot as my lungs demand air, and just when I’m about to fight him, he lets my nose go. On instinct, I open my mouth, gasping for air as he releases me. This results in most of his seed spilling down my throat, while some dribbles out of the corner of my mouth.

Spitting hysterically, I attempt to rid his foul taste from my mouth, but it’s too late. He’s a part of me now.

“One day, it won’t be my fingers down yer throat.” He wipes away the trickle from my chin, smirking victoriously as he pulls up his trousers.

I don’t cower. I am expressionless as he waits for me to do something, anything. But it’ll be a cold day in hell when I show defeat.

Angered, he spits in my face before turning and slamming the door shut behind him.

Only when I hear his irritated footsteps grow softer and softer, do I crumple. Wiping the spittle from my cheek, I reach for my nightgown with trembling fingers. Once dressed, I come to a shaky stand and stagger into the bathroom where I lift the toilet seat and crouch. This time, I force my own fingers down my throat.

Gagging a few times, I persevere until I throw up nothing but bile, but that’s okay because I know I’m expelling the vile bastard from my system. When I’ve got nothing left to bring up, I cradle the porcelain bowl, slamming my fist against the side of it as tears of anger stream down my face.

No matter what it takes, no matter how long, I’m going to kill every last…Doyle and burn their motherfucking kingdom to the ground.