Untitled: Chapter 1 - Sick

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Chapter 1

Sick

I was pushed from the carriage roughly, causing me to trip and fall, hard, onto my hands and knees. I tasted the dust from the cobblestones in my mouth, and cried out in pain as a rock dug into my knee, drawing blood. A rough, merciless hand grabbed my wrist and twisted my arm behind my back, dragging me up from the ground as though it were my fault that I had fallen. I was used to it, though. I was spun around to face a horse drawn, ornate carriage and my master. He smirked at me, a horrible malicious smirk that I had learned to hate. He surveyed me with a mixture of disgust and intrigue, and then sighed.

“It’s a shame,” he said, leaning forward, and twisting a finger in a lock of my hair. I drew back quickly. “You were...” he pondered for the right word, drawing his finger away to scratch his chin mockingly. “Fun,” he smirked again. “But I cannot have defiance,” he said his voice hardening. “I’ll make an example out of you, and God forbid any girl who dares defy me again.” I lowered my head as tears pricked at my eyes. I was determined not to show weakness in front of him, so I wiped them away quickly. He gave me one last look before turning away and cracking his whip, sending the horses cantering down the alley, their hooves clattering against the cobbles.

I was left at the mercy of the rough hands, the hands of the man my master used to do his dirty work. He was called Peter. It was such a common and friendly name, that when I’d first met him, I found it hard to believe what the other girls had told me about avoiding him. Peter spun me around to face the town square.

I had once thought, when I was a child, that the town square was a happy place, the home of celebrations like May Day and Carols on Christmas Eve but my perception of the square had changed since then, and I hated it now. The gallows that were taken down for the celebrations were there now, ominous and looming, the noose full of the last pleas of its victims. It was waiting, silently swaying, prepared to snuff out another life. My life.

I tore my gaze away from the rope and surveyed the crowd. It made me so angry, yet sad, to look at the people gathered here. They were ordinary, but had been manipulated by those in power into thinking that this was the right way to build an honest and stable community. The men were the worst. They stood there jeering at the gallows waiting for the execution and revelling in the atmosphere. It was sick. Sick that they would enjoy watching someone die, someone who they didn’t even know, someone who may not deserve to meet that fate. But it was true, I was watching them. I felt sorry for most of the women, who, by the uncomfortable looks on their faces, had been dragged along against their will. I had been in the same position once and I had watched against my better judgement. I shuddered at the memory. My observations were interrupted by a sharp jab in my back.

I was pushed up to the gallows, and onto a small stool. The crowd jeered again as my wrists were tied, and the noose that had killed so many in my position, was fastened around my neck. I cried then, unable to stop the sobs from shaking my body. My fate was unavoidable, I could see that now. I hoped there was something there for me after death, heaven perhaps. I had tried my best to lead a faithful life and my sins were mostly through no fault of my own. I had often wondered because of the heinous crimes against me if God was truly watching over me. I lowered my head in a last desperate prayer, deciding that God, whether there or not, was all the hope I had left now. The executioner, a dark, haunting man dressed in black, stepped onto the gallows and put his boot against the stool that I stood on. The noose was designed to deliver a slow and painful death, during which, your air supply would be cut off and you would slowly suffocate. It was supposed to entertain the crowd for longer. Sick, but there was no escaping it now. I felt the stool move slightly underneath me, and I realised that the executioner was toying with me, gently pushing the stool but not enough to knock it over. He was enjoying himself, though how he could, I didn’t know. He pushed again, one of the men in the crowd cheered, and then groaned when the stool stayed on two legs. I looked at him; he was fairly ordinary with close cropped, dirty blond hair, and chiselled features. He had a little girl of about 6 standing by his ankles. She had light brown hair hanging loosely around her cheeks and the same sharp, pointed features as her father. Mercifully he was hiding her eyes but I still couldn’t understand how a father of a young child could be so cruel in front of her. I dropped my gaze.

The executioner pushed the stool, properly this time, tipping it enough for the rope to dig into my throat. I started to scream, scream at the top of my lungs. The scream died in my throat, and I began to say my last prayer aloud, before it was too late.

“Mother, mother I’m sorry. I love you. I know you didn’t mean what you did. I know it. James, I never got to say goodbye, I’m sorry. Molly, be strong and try to get out of there, please, don’t be afraid of him, you will be ok. And Charlie...Charlie I...”

“Stop!”

I felt the stool wobble back onto two legs. I was safe, for now.

I looked up to see who had shouted. I recognised him immediately; he had his hand raised and a grimace on his face. It was Charlie. He had the same soft, boyish features that he had had when we were younger, and his hair was still mousy brown in colour.

“Stop,” he repeated, pushing his way through the crowd towards the gallows.

“I want to...I mean I’ll...”

“Spit it out,” shouted the executioner pushing the stool again slightly. I gasped as I felt the rope cut into my neck once more.

“I’ll buy her,” said Charlie grimacing. He looked disgusted at himself, and I knew for sure then that he wasn’t going to hurt me, he was rescuing me.

“Ah, well it will be a pretty penny for this one, young man,” said the executioner pinching my cheek as though I was a child.

“Don’t touch her! I have a right to buy a slave girl as does any other man,” Charlie said stumbling slightly on the word slave as though he didn’t want to say it. “Name your price.”

“Oh, well, I would say about twelve pounds and sixpence for this beauty. I wouldn’t mind her myself but I already have plenty of...Toys,” he smirked at me. I glared back; I was tired of being used. I knew how those girls that he had locked up in his home felt. Charlie counted out and handed over a fistful of coins. Twelve pounds was so much money, I would have to pay him back someday.

“Now, let her down,” he said in a firm tone, staring the executioner down.

“Fine,” said the executioner, a strange glint in his eye.

He faced me and grabbed the rope around my wrist and whispered in my ear, “farewell, gorgeous.”

He pushed me off the stool, and laughed a cruel horrific laugh. I felt the noose tighten around my neck and I choked as my air supply was cut off. The crowd roared whether in approval or shock, I couldn’t tell. The rope burned my throat, and I tried to grab it with my hands to pull it away. I could taste blood in my mouth, my blood. I gave up, it was impossible. I was going to die, and Charlie had paid all that money for nothing. I became limp, no longer fighting because it would only kill me faster.

“No!” Charlie roared. He jumped up, onto the gallows, pushing the executioner with a sudden strength caused by a wave of adrenaline. The executioner tripped and fell backwards off the gallows. I heard him roar in agony but I couldn’t see what had happened. There was another wave of noise from the crowd, this time it was obvious that they were angry. Charlie ignored them and grabbed me around the waist to support some of my weight. I felt the noose loosen a little, but it was still suffocating me. Charlie pulled a knife from his pocket, and attempted to cut the rope away. He sawed through the rope quickly, but I was feeling increasingly weak and faint, due to lack of air. The rope relaxed its hold on me a little, enough for Charlie to pull it over my head. I fell limply into his arms, barely conscious of my surroundings. I could smell something metallic, and I guessed it was blood. I felt Charlie put his other arm under me and support the rest of my weight.

“Lila? Lila. Please,” he muttered in my ear, pulling a strand of hair from my face. I groaned in response. Charlie turned to get down from the gallows and the angry mob greeted him. Many of the men were climbing onto the gallows on either side of us. One of them was shouting and waving his fist at Charlie.

“Murderer, you murdered a good man!” the man yelled. Charlie cursed.

I wasn’t sure what was happening, I guessed that the executioner had hit his head when he had fallen, but all I really knew was that he was dead.

“Hang on,” he muttered to me. I grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Charlie leapt from the gallows landing like a cat on the cobbles, the crowd parted in surprise. He ran forward, pushing his way past anyone who tried to stop him. I was vaguely aware of someone pursuing us, but Charlie was nimble and he kept ahead. He cut into an alley that led out of town to Avenue Road, where I had lived as a child. He ran at full pelt, back to a house that I had never been in before, so I assumed it was his. It was the nicest one on the road, but that didn’t mean much; Avenue Road was the poorest street in town. He opened the door, shot a few furtive glances up and down the street to check that we weren’t being followed, and slammed it shut, turning the wooden lock.

He gently tried to set me on my feet, but I was still weak and I fell to the concrete floor. I gasped in shock and took a deep breath in. I retched from the sharp pain. I sat up and tried to get the rope off my wrists, so I could make sure my throat was ok. Charlie knelt beside me.

“Here, let me do that.”

He tried to untie the knot, but it was too tight. He pulled out his knife again and cut through it. I rubbed my wrists, coxing the blood back into my hands. Charlie watched me, still knelt on the floor; I could feel his eyes looking me up and down. With no warning he caught one of my wrists, and grimaced as he saw the huge welts and burns from the handcuffs and ropes that had bound my hands so often.

“Lila, what...?”

“It’s nothing. Are they still following us? Are they coming after me?” I asked gazing fearfully up at Charlie.

“No, no it’s alright, you’re safe now,” he said squeezing my wrist gently. I winced slightly and pulled my hand away instinctively.

“Oh, sorry,” he said quickly. I smiled briefly to show him I was fine and reached up tentatively to touch my throat. There was a burn there and breathing was difficult. The air was like fire, burning my throat and lungs. But I hoped that I would be ok in time.

“Let me look,” Charlie said. I stared at him, confused. He saw my expression and began to explain as he inspected the burn and listened to my breathing.

“I found some work as a doctor in the hospital in town, I earn a pittance but it allows for a few home comforts.” He gestured to a ratty old sofa and a small pile of wood for a fire.

“You will be ok, but breathing deeply will always hurt a little. For now, try to breathe regularly.” He dropped the hand that had been resting on my throat. As it fell, his fingers drifted lightly over the bare skin on my lower arms, it tingled. I touched the burn again and felt a twinge of pain; I drew my hand away quickly.

I suddenly realised how cold it was in the house, and I shivered violently. I only wore an old torn dress and there was no fire in the grate.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m... I’m not a very good host,” Charlie said looking slightly embarrassed. He went over to the fire and lit it, throwing the room into light for the first time. He knelt over the grate gently blowing onto the wood, I noticed how strong his shoulders looked and the way his blond hair had natural streaks of brown. He threw some more wood onto the fire, sending sparks flying, and stood.

“I’ll get you a coat,” he said. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

I got up from the floor, I was still finding it difficult to breathe, but crushing my airways by sitting down wasn’t going to help. The room was homely, as Charlie had said, particularly with the fire crackling in the grate. But it was still old and worn, and it was obvious that Charlie wasn’t lying about his wage. There was an armchair and a sofa, both clearly second hand, with faded patterns embroidered on the cushion covers that didn’t match. There was also a small drawing, framed on the wall. I recognised it from when I was a child. I had drawn it; it was the sketch of me and Charlie playing in the snow, the day I was taken away. I was shocked to see that he had taken such good care of it. The door swung open again, and Charlie was there with a coat hanging over his arm.

“Here,” he said handing me the coat. I took it and clutched it over my chest suddenly self conscious being near Charlie. My back was still exposed. He gestured to the sofa. “Sit down.”

I muttered my thanks, and made to sit on the sofa. Charlie gasped as I turned my back to him. I stood, startled.

“Lila. Your back,” he reached a hand towards me again. I instinctively raised my hand to feel the cracked skin, bruises and cuts where I had been beaten. Some of them still bled a little.

“It’s nothing,” I muttered, I didn’t want him to worry about me.

“Lila?” He looked directly at me. “What happened to you? Who did this?”

“I’d rather not say,” I whispered averting my gaze. He gestured for me to sit beside him and took my hands in his. I was surprised at the gesture, but I tried not to show it.

“Please, tell me.” He had a strange persuasiveness about him, and I knew then that I wanted to tell someone. I wanted to share my ordeal. He let my hands drop and leaned back, waiting patiently. I didn’t know where to begin so he prompted me.

“What happened when you were taken away from Avenue Road?”

I ran my fingers through my matted, blood strewn hair and began.

“Do you remember that day when we played in the snow?” I asked him, pointing at my drawing. He nodded.

“And those men who came to my house?” He nodded again, sad horror filling his eyes. I shuddered and said, “they were traders, they took me away from mother, and you, for ten pounds and sixpence."