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OK, So i've taken Jay's Comments on board and had another crack at it. I'm Happier with the result, I think its an important part of the story about the MC. It tells us who she is and why she is like she is. Is this tighter compared to the first draft?
As usual any thoughts are much appreciated, this is a difficult and delicate subject to tackle hey.
Cheers
AL
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"Annie Emily Phi, for the crime of stealing, on this day, 13 June 1798, I hereby sentence you to live out the rest of your days in servitude as part of the penal colonies of Australia. May God have mercy on you."
"Your honour, mercy.” Her words, stolen mid sentence as rough hands grabbed her. The musket shot sound of a gavel hitting mahogany rang out, sealing her fate. And those words. Those spiteful words floating towards her in a surreal fog of echoes.
"Take her away." The judge said as his face melted, twisting and blurring. His voice fading, changing into the slow rhythmic creaking of a ship.
Another face loomed, a map of weathered lines. His misshapen teeth like rotten gravestones mounted on wet, reddened earth. His breath as foul as the corps's buried under his gums.
"Your a pretty little thing ‘aint-ya.” He said as his hands pawed and molested her.
More hands grabbed, countless hands coming out of the darkness from every direction and from nowhere. She felt the cold touch of steel as scissors attacked at her hair, cutting and ripping.
"No. Stop. Stop.” She heard a voice. Her own perhaps? She couldn’t tell. It was weak, powerless and small.
"You're a real pretty one"
The scissors scattered like startled birds, cawing and flapping with metallic wings.
The nowhere hands started ripping at her clothes. Tearing, groping, grunting with animalistic sounds as they advanced. They pulled her down and held her, transforming into grotesque five legged spiders, dancing a merry dance of pain across her chest and up between her legs. Shooting wet webs across her face, while the laughter echoed around her.
She tried to fight back, but the nowhere hands were strong, holding her down.
"Please stop … Please stop.”
The nowhere hands spun her around. Her bonnet ripped off, falling before her. The crispness of the white cotton a stark contrast to the ships dark hardwood floor. She reached up, trying to prize the chocking pressure from her neck, but the hands were too strong. They squeezed.
Another rip, this time her shirt. Spinning her again. Her rag-doll arms useless and flailing. The nowhere hands seizing the greater prize of her young breasts. A bitter sweet mercy, allowing her to gasp in the air she desperately needed. The gentle motion of the ship rocking seemed to be mocking her as they pulled and pushed at her.
Pain exploded between her legs. Her voice tried to cry out, but that too was stolen from her. Her insides ripping as he pushed himself onto her. Into her. Grunting and drooling as he tore his way through her innocence. There was a wetness on her backside. Was it blood? Or was it him? She could taste the bile rising as his rotten breath washed across her, his foul stench on her face as he heaved.
Her fingers clasped around something solid. Comforting in it’s in-organic hard coldness. Her once ragdoll arms became strong as her rage built.
“You go next ‘arry.” the foggy voice echoed from the dark as the laughter reverberated around her.
“I don’t want your sloppy seconds.” Came the reply.
Her anger fuelled her. She lashed-out. The half empty bottle connected and shattered across that vile grin. Liquid splashed across her face, a twisted cocktail of blood and rum. She pulled the broken glass back, and stabbed out blindly, again and again. The nowhere hands lets go and the once strong voice was reduced to a guttural gurgling. Blood streaked across her, washing through her mouth as his life spattered across her face.
The map-lined features faded. She found herself in a shallow pool of blood, pushing off a dead man. Slipping as she tried to get up. The five legged spiders morphing into rotting dead hands, cracking and bleeding as they groped. Falling at her feet and scurrying away as she stood.
“Hide Annie.” her inner voice told her. “Hide before they find you...”
For a moment there was nothing but the sound of her heart and the pain between her legs. She wanted to run. She wanted to hide. She wanted to curl up into a ball and cry.
“You fucking whore. You killed him.”
A second face appeared from the darkness. Ragged and toothless with potted skin and boils across his brow.
Behind the face the pompous judge and sat. He pointing his gavel at her and laughed. His fat cheeks, growing in size as they flapped up and down in time with his laughter. His chins wobbling as they grew.
“Australia” he shouted and smashed the gavel down.
As the wooden hammer hit, she saw the flash of the muzzle. The little lead ball following it’s inevitable course. She turned and ran, but no matter which direction she went the little lead ball was barring down in front of her. Her head cracked back as it impacted. The momentum took her feet away as she was thrown backwards.
Somewhere, off in the distance a whistle blew and Anam Phi opened her eyes.
She found that her hand was shaking, unconsciously tracing the outline of the scar, the texture and ripples jarring against otherwise smooth skin. Her stomach heaved at the memories the dream resurrected. Still fresh, even though it was 200 years ago. Every time she would dream the same dream, waking as her head was slammed into the hard wooden floor. The same night Croi Dorcha found her and gave her the choice. “Come with me.” He had said, “and no man can ever hurt you again.”
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