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.
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