Execution of a Sinner (Until I think of a better name)

They were not very quiet. Though, they didn't really need to be. If anyone heard them, no one would care to stop them from carrying out their task. In fact, Lorna would not doubt that some of the villagers would be willing to assist the night intruders. So, she ignored the whispers, footsteps and miscellaneous noises that slipped through the openings in her windows. Instead, she continued scribbling her most immediate thoughts in the small, leather-bound journal she reserved for sleepless nights such as this one.

She did not stop writing until the splintering of wood, probably the front door to her home, interrupted her thoughts. With a sigh, she brought the latest entry to a close, signed and dated it, then closed the little notebook and slipped it into a desk drawer. Ignoring the crash of plates and the rip of cloth coming from outside her bedroom, she sat patiently, humming to herself. A quiet knock quickly crescendo-ed into a ruckus she felt not even her self-absorbed neighbors would miss. Again, she heard the wood of a door crack, grate against the frame that held it in place, then splinter inwards, though this time the process was accompanied by the vibrations that resulted from the steady pounding and the uncomfortable sensation of wood splinters pattering against her back with the breaking of the door.

The group burst into the room, huffing and mumbling to themselves. Still, she kept her back to them, even going so far as to close her eyes and focus on taking deep and slow breaths to calm the heart that would not obey her mind's orders. She clung to silence, even as one man fisted his hand in the thick darkness of her hair and yanked her from her seat, throwing her on the floor into the circle of black clad figures. Lorna drew her focus to a dark knob in the floorboard, fastening her concentration on the small disfigurement to pull her attentions away from the pain that bloomed in her stomach, her arms and her legs with the slam of each boot toe and heel.

They spat names at her, the kindest of which was "whoring witch." She said nothing, and though her body would not let her fully contain the yelps and groans that the pummeling pulled from her, no one could say she did not make a mighty effort to do otherwise. Naturally, this angered her assailants all the more, until one (it's difficult to determine identity in the midst of a beating) once again utilized her thick hair to heave her face into a meaty hand, propelled with significant force by a hatred that extended far beyond words.

Rape was an option, but none wished for the poison the cursed creature would surely bring with the act, not that she was worthy of that sort of violation in the first place. Of course, this meant they soon grew tired of their bludgeoning ministrations, and were forced to progress from fisticuffs to armed retaliation. Granted, retaliation is hardly a fitting term when one opponent refused to fight back, but not one of the midnight intruders believed they were doing anything less than noble. Staring down at the woman, if she should even be called that, one man spit on her, then drew a blade from his side, only glancing up briefly to see his brothers in arms do the same.

To kill her quickly would have been more of a blessing than the monster deserved. So they gave her more than her due, cutting at every accessible piece of flesh until wounded skin could not be told apart from unwounded, as all was hidden beneath the blanket of blood that had spread over her skin like a sickening paint. If they were to be honest, the garish, red hue was a surprise to the lot of them, as any sign of humanity on their target could not be believed. She was a monster, a witch, a perilous threat to them all. Ridding the world of her was not only a duty, but a pleasure. So, they ignored the cries that sprung from her raw throat, merely avoided the pained thrashing of bleeding and broken limbs, and carried on with their work until all had had their fill.

Lorna was lost in the pain and the hurt, though she asked no questions of her punishment. She knew as well as they that it was what she deserved, that she was what they said, possibly more. The woman tried to bare it as quietly and compliantly as possible, but somewhere she had lost touch with her control and could do more than thrash uselessly and react violently to every slice, kick and burst of hellish pain that struck her.

Breathing hard, sweat streaking the spots of blood that speckled the men's faces, they stopped their gruesome work one by one until all were still. As one, they watched the woman jerk and thrash in the bloody puddle until she was still, save for the shaking of her chest as she sobbed to herself. Then, again as one, they stabbed, cutting deep. One in the heart. One in the stomach. One on her back. One after another until she was still, silent, dead.

Pity Party

One must wonder, what is the purpose of a pity party? You sit there, wallowing in sea of unhappiness, which is basically never an enjoyable experience, yet when some suggest you get up and leave, you refuse. That was probably a run on sentence. Anyway, it's a mystery to me.

I have no room to criticize others for this nasty habit, as I am one of the worst perpetrators I have ever met. I possess the impressive ability to dwell on a single incident for years. Even so, a simple thought, the flash of a memory, the whisper of a remembrance, and my mood shifts so drastically, I might s well have spawned my own raincloud.

I wonder why I do this. Is there some backwards chemical process that makes this state of mind addictive? Why else would I seek to return to this state of being time and again? Even worse, why would I constantly endeavor to bring others with me?

A happy conversation, rife with puns and good humor, turns south because I cannot, or do not stop my traitorous fingers form delivering the hint of negativity. It would have been better had the other party never been informed of my state of mind. It is one thing to mope around and drown yourself in your own struggles, but it is quite another to involve a friend, a confidante. I suppose one could make an argument for friendship and being able to rely on one another, or some such nonsense, but it could also be said that including the second party is a direct attempt to cause another suffering.

How sick is that? And yet, it is possible. Maybe I have some sick fascination with seeing other people concerned for me. Maybe some selfish part of me seeks affirmation of others' affections. To know that someone would be offended on my behalf, worry for me, care about how I feel, be concerned about my suffering. Maybe I get some queer sort of satisfaction knowing that someone else out there thinks I'm worth it.

But that's wrong, and completely unfair to whoever is hurt at my expense. It is selfish. Crude. Wrong. And the practice of one who is weak. Too weak for reality. Too weak to deserve the friends that care for her.

So, I'll just go back to moping around and hope I have the common sense, or at least the decency, not to involve another.

The Evasion of Happiness

For the last few days, I have been so blissfully happy I don't even have the words to fully explain it. It's a magical blend of peace, this irritating joy that radiates from my chest and a smile that never seems to leave my face. I'm not used to this. And because of that, I'm subconsciously trying to ruin it for myself. How stupid.

I start wondering: Do I deserve this? Is this really supposed to happen to me, or are the fates just playing a game with my head?

Then it moves beyond questions to a depressing sort of certainty. I worry about the future. About what this will bring. The consequences for myself and for others. Until I can't even contain the single bit of moisture that bubbles over the ledge of my eyelid and strolls boldly down my cheek. It's stupid and I know it, but so am I.

___________________

Anyways, I suppose I should write something else creative soon. Maybe it would help my mood, haha.  friend of mine once challenged himself to write something happy and soft and touchy feely. I don't know how well I'd do with that, but it's worth a try. Not right now, though. Too much non-mushy things going on around me. Something to think on.