This is in answer to flash challenge from a really cool guy, Chuck Wendig. You should go see his blog at terribleminds.com. I do warn you, though, he is definitely NSFW. And so is this challenge. It’s in response to a new app called Clean Reader. I won’t go into it here – check out Chuck’s blog entry titled “Fuck You, Clean Reader: Authorial Consent Matters.” The link is just below. ‘Nuff said.
The challenge is this, and I quote: “So, given all the hullaballoo with Clean Reader (“read books, not profanity”) this week, I thought a flash fiction challenge in pure defiance had some meaning. Thus: I want you to be inspired by that debacle. I want you to write filthily. Or write about filth. Sex, profanity, perversion. Fiction or meta-fiction. Any genre.”
My entry is a cut from my current WIP (Work In Progress). It’s current time, but set on another world. Sometime soon I’ll fill you all in on that. Just now, though, here’s the excerpt. It’s about people who’ve broken the rules, and those who have to deal with the aftermath. It runs somewhat over the 2000 words Chuck asked for, but hey, breaking rules, yeh? Only one cuss word. Said innocently, too. It’s the rest that hurts…
# # #
It was one of the times Deimo most feared; what he called the white madness, when his Master’s eyes were pale as ice and there was nothing human inside. A time when there was nothing Deimo could do to prevent or protect, but only stand and listen, sick and shaking and grieving inside but ultimately and utterly—helpless.
Sometimes, if he was there and could recognize the signs soon enough, he could head off the rage. Could dull its edge by offering his own body for the beating, let his Master spend the madness in the ring by putting up a real fight. Save a life by hazarding his own, where he at least had a chance to survive by his own skills.
But other times…
It had happened before. He had tried, gods knew, he had tried to save the girl, to put himself in between her and his Master, to no avail. She was already dying, and it was weeks before all his own injuries healed.
The worst of it was that his Master remembered what happened. Oh, not what he had done to the girl, no. But that Deimo had tried to prevent him—that, he remembered. The next day Khamasur had called him to the atrium and struck him down with one savage blow that left him dazed and bleeding on the floor, and stood over him with glittering eyes. And told him what would happen to his family if ever again Deimo stood between him and his intent.
Now it was happening again. Deimo had been out of the House, gone to the Citadel to meet with the Security Chiefs of the other Houses for a conference. When he returned, the watch commander told him that the Master was in such a rage as he had never seen, and when Deimo went to the atrium he found the man who had stood guard in his place sick and shaking and cowering in the hall.
What he found in the atrium was pure horror.
Deimo had the halls cleared from the atrium to the Master’s chambers, and threatened dire consequence if anyone so much as stepped into the short hall before he gave permission. He ordered the guard away from the Master’s suite, so no-one would see him covered in blood. Then he took charge of Khamasur, walking slowly with him all the long way through the House as he staggered like a drunkard from the exhaustion of his fit.
In Khamasur’s chambers Deimo stripped off his Master’s bloody clothes, drew a bath and bathed him, and put him to bed. He cleaned up the room and disposed of the bloody robes, then went back down to the atrium.
What Khamasur had done to the girl was brutal. Her body looked as though it had been savaged by animals: beaten and broken, the flesh torn and bloody. He stripped off what remained of her clothes and washed the blood from her body, then wrapped her in a sheet. Then he cleaned the atrium, washing down the tiles and columns until they were once again pristine white.
When he was done he took the body out of the House, carrying the dead girl in his arms and laying her gently across the seat of the car. He drove through the deserted streets down to the Agora and laid her in the shadows on the path nearest the House of Apollo Akestor, where she was sure to be found by the guards of the City Watch. Then he drove back to his House, sick and sad and weary.
But the worst was still to come.
The last time a madness like this had come on him, Khamasur had slept through the night and far into the next day. This time he woke again, not long after Deimo had left the House on his sad errand. Khamasur’s appetites had woken with him, and, finding no guard at his door, he commed his Governor, Panourgo. The Governor sent his runner, Oso, for wine and a tray of meats and cheeses, while he himself went to the women’s dorm. He woke the hall, chose a woman, and brought her to Khamasur, ignoring her protests and her weeping.
When Deimo returned the Watch commander met him at the door, telling him what the door guard had heard when he took over at shift change.
He found the door guard waiting in the hall, as far away from the Master’s door as he could get and still stand his post. Deimo took his report, then sent the guard away, telling the man that he himself would look in on the Master and stand guard until the next shift change.
And then he went inside.
It was a scene of carnage. Blood was everywhere: on the floor, on the walls and pillars, on the hangings. Khamasur lay naked in the middle of the room in a welter of gore, and Deimo went to him first. For all the blood on his body, only a small amount of it was his; cuts and abrasions on his hands from the blows he had given, and a long shallow cut on his arm that looked as if it came from a knife.
Deimo heard a soft sound, and looking up he saw the runner boy, Oso, on the balcony, cowering hard against the balustrade. He was shivering in shock, staring with his gaze fixed on Khamasur.
Deimo rose and came forward, then stepped between the boy and his Master to block his view, crouching down a few feet away. The boy was spattered with blood; on his clothes, on his face, and in his pale hair. “Oso,” Deimo said softly. “Oso.” He reached out his hand and the boy cringed, but his eyes lost the fixed stare and tracked to Deimo. “Oso, are you alright? Are you hurt?” Deimo kept his voice soft, soothing. The boy shook his head.
He looked back at the boy, and gestured back to the horrific scene. “Did you see what happened here?” Oso nodded. Very gently Deimo asked him, “Can you tell me?” The boy nodded again, and Deimo shifted, settled down on one knee.
“Master called Panourgo,” the boy said, his voice faint but clear. “Master wanted a girl, wanted wine, and meat, and cheese. Panourgo sent me to fetch wine, and meat, and cheese for Master, told me to bring it here. I brought it here.”
Deimo nodded encouragement, reassuring the boy that he understood. It would take time to get the full story, he knew; the boy had to tell it in his own way, and with the life he had to live and the horror of what he had seen tonight… It would take time.
“Master took the wine, Master didn’t want the meat and cheese. He wanted the girl. Wanted her to drink wine with him. The girl was afraid of Master. She didn’t want wine. She wanted to go, go back to her room, go back to bed. Master hit the girl, hit her. The girl fell down, and Master fucked the girl, hard, hard.” Deimo winced at how casually the boy said it, knowing it was the only word he knew for the act. For what had so often been done to him. Gods, the life he led in this House… “She cried. She cried, and she screamed, and Master hit her.
“Master wanted more wine. He got up and put more wine in his cup and drank it. The girl got up, too. She wanted cheese and meat. She went to the plate with the cheese and meat, and she took the knife to cut the cheese and meat. But then she ran, she ran to Master and cut him with the knife. Master threw away the cup with the wine. He took the knife from the girl and hit her with the knife. Hit her. Hit her. Hit her…” The boy’s voice trailed off, and he looked again at Khamasur on the floor. “There was blood when he hit her. When he hit her with the knife. She screamed when he hit her with the knife, and then she didn’t scream any more. She fell down. Master kept hitting her with the knife.” The boy stopped, and just crouched there, shivering.
Deimo looked around the room, looking for the body that was the source of all the blood, but saw nothing, no-one. He looked back at the boy. “Oso,” he asked, gesturing around them again. “Where is she?”
The boy shifted his gaze back to Deimo, staring at him with stricken eyes. Slowly, very slowly, the boy turned his head to look over his shoulder—through the balusters at his back, out to the sea.
“Gods bless…” Deimo breathed. Very slowly he stood, trying not to frighten the boy any further. He moved away and went to the railing a few feet from the boy, looked over and down. There on the rocks, hundreds of feet below, he could see the body. Broken and still, white robes swirling on the incoming tide.
The boy spoke again; still quiet, still matter-of-fact. “Master got up, and he looked at her. He looked at her a long time. Then he hit her with his foot, and he looked at her again. Then he bent down, and he picked up the girl, and he carried her here where we watch the sun. He held her up, made her be standing here. And then he made her fly. She flew. She had white wings, and she flew down, down, down to the sea.” There was something strange in his voice when he said it, almost a yearning.
Deimo stared down at the girl’s body, and his heart ached in his chest. There was no way to get down there, no way to reach her. But the tide would take her, and the sea would give her peace.
He turned to the boy. “Oso, will you do something for me? For me, and for the Master?” The boy nodded. “Go into the bathing room and draw a bath. You can wash yourself, too. Here,” he said. He took off the dark gray tunic of his uniform, then took off the soft linen one he wore underneath. “If you give me your tunic when you take it off, I will have it cleaned and give it back to you. You can wear this one to go home.” He shrugged. “It’s big, but it’s clean.” He started to reach out to hand it to Oso, but the boy cringed back, so he folded it instead and set it aside where the boy could get it. Then he backed away.
He left the suite of rooms and went down the hall; found the cleaning supplies and brought them back with him. The boy was gone and so was the tunic, but he could hear water running in the bathing room. He settled down to cleaning the room, but when the boy came back out Deimo went and picked Khamasur up in his arms. He carried his Master into the bathing room and washed him clean once more, dried him off, and put him to bed again.
When he came back out, the boy was gone.
Deimo pulled out his com and called Altheo, the House Physician, and told him to come up to Khamasur’s rooms—and told him to bring a galánas device. There was a moment of silence, and then the Physician said one word. “Bad?” he asked.
“The worst.” Deimo’s voice was tight and hard, the words almost choking him.
“I’ll be there.”
Deimo put the com away and kept washing.
# # #
He was still cleaning when Altheo arrived. He let the Physician in and stood aside, and Altheo stopped dead in the hall, staring around him. “What happened here?” he asked, appalled.
“Khamasur,” Deimo answered, curt and succinct. “Two women are dead. One down in the atrium, one here.” He didn’t look at Altheo when he said it; couldn’t look him in the eyes. “I took the one down to the Agora. Just like last time.” His words were bitter. “At least she’ll get a decent burial.” He knelt down, went back to scrubbing the floor.
“And the other?” Altheo’s voice was faint. Deimo gestured to the balcony.
Altheo went to the rail, looked over. “Great Kheiron’s bow…” When he turned back, his face was sick. “And Khamasur?”
Deimo gestured to the bedroom. “Sleeping it off.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Abrasions on his hands, and a scratch from a knife.” He looked up at the Physician, his face gone suddenly bitter. “If you could put him out for—” He cut himself off sharply, but both of them knew the word he hadn’t said. Forever… “For the night. Until tomorrow. Until night.”
Altheo nodded. “Give us all some time to breathe.” He headed off to the bedroom.
Deimo looked up again. “Altheo—” The Physician looked back at him. “Oso was here, the whole time. He saw it all.”
“Oh, gods…” Altheo stood there for a moment, then shook his head and continued on. He came out a few minutes later, putting the galánas device back in its case. He watched Deimo for a few moments. “Deimo, are you—?”
“Fine.” The word was more a grunt than anything.
“I said I’m fine.” It hung there between them for a long moment. “I’m sorry, Altheo. But what do you want me to say? That I’m appalled? I am. That I’m angry? I am. That I’m hurting, that I’m devastated about both those girls, that I wish we could just…” He cut off his words, sat back on his heels and looked up at the other man. “I’m all those things and a hundred more, and what good does it do to say them?” He took a breath that was half a sob and threw down the rag he’d been using. “What good does any of it do? We’re here. We can’t leave, we have too many ties and too many responsibilities, and just like that poor boy Oso we’ll be here until we’re broken or we die, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Nothing, until we die, or he dies, or the world ends.” He looked away, picked up the rag, and started scrubbing again.
“This has to stop.”
“Let me know when you find a way,” Deimo said bitterly. “Until then there’s no use talking.”
“This has to stop. You can’t keep doing this.”
Deimo surged to his feet, and the Physician backed away hurriedly. “Then who, Altheo?” His words were savage, bitten off with an anger that had no recourse. “Should I have told Oso to do it? He would have, you know. He does what he’s told, it’s the only way he can be safe. It’s the only part of his life he can control. And we’re just like him, you know that, don’t you? It’s the only way we can survive here, keeping our heads down and doing what we’re told. The only way we can be safe. Except we can’t. Because there’s that…” He swung his arm, indicating the room around them, the bedroom beyond, and the balcony where a young girl’s life ended and he didn’t even know who she was. He wouldn’t know, until someone in the House reported her missing, and then what did he tell her family? His face shivered; too many emotions to show clearly, and then it went to stone. Cold. Hard. Expressionless. “Go back to your rooms, Altheo. You’ve done what you came to do. I have to finish.”
Altheo nodded, acknowledging what Deimo had said, and what he couldn’t say. He looked around again, then walked away. But he laid a hand on Deimo’s shoulder as he passed, silent commiseration. And then Deimo was alone.
# # #
Very dire! I liked your characters, with the obvious exception…makes me curious about what’s going on and why, exactly, everyone is willing to put up with it. I mean, the evil one is unconscious, right?
Yes, Khamasur (the evil one-and is he ever!) is unconscious. A good time to put him out of our misery, wouldn’t you think? Except it would be noticed, by everyone. The Security Office knows that their Chief of Security, Deimo, is attending Khamasur after one of his episodes. They would discover that Khamasur is dead, and report it to the authorities outside their House, and that would lead to real problems for them all. The murder of a Householder has dire consequences–up to and including the destruction of the House.
Essentially, they’re trapped.
And that’s a major part of what this book is about.
Thanks so much for your feedback, it’s greatly appreciated!
I really liked this, enough to come back to it a few times. It reminds me of ‘Dune’ – it has that feel. I’d really like to know what’s going on in Khamasur’s mind. It intrigues me to see how broken minds think of and justify their actions, even if only to themselves.
Will you be posting more of this as a blog series or is this a WIP?
Oops! I had read it’s a WIP. Want.
Cool! Thank you, P.D.! Yes, it’s a work in progress. It’s actually part of a series under the working title of the Houses of Thanah. I started book one, The House of the Black Dog, for NaNoWriMo in 2012. That book is still in first draft stage, though finally nearing completion and editing. I’m actually looking for readers for feedback; have several friends reading, but I’m not getting any feedback other than “Way cool!” That’s nice to hear, but unfortunately it doesn’t tell me if there are problems. As you’re reading Chuck Wendig’s blog I’m sure you know how that is!
The reason it’s taking so long with book one is that it was becoming enormous. So much so that I finally realized it was more than one book. In fact, it’s turned into FIVE. (Thus the series.) The piece I posted is actually from what I’m currently considering book three, which runs parallel with book one. Book four runs parallel with book two, and book five ties the two (and more) storylines together.
I think I’m getting the clue about this blog thing finally, so I’ll be posting more about the series and possibly more excerpts in the near future. Thank you so much for your kind words!
Well, I’m not much of an editor or writer – I just write stuff for fun occasionally – but I get it about unhelpful feedback. All my friends gush about my stuff but I doubt I’ve had a really incisive appraisal from them in a decade. I exist outside of the Internet but I’d be happy to help if I can. I had a few thoughts about your story but unasked for ‘advice’ is almost as bad as poor feedback that was asked for. 😀
I don’t know enough about wordpress yet to know if you can set up an ‘invitation only’ section where stuff can be thrown against a wall, but in the meantime if you’d like some initial impressions from me you’ll find my email address in the ‘comments’ section of your dashboard.
Oh, wow. Thank you! I will take you up on that. Any feedback at all will be welcome! (happily trundling off to find the comments section on my dashboard!)
Your story has a classic almost mythological feel to it. Interesting. Dark. Intriguing. My only ‘note’ might be that I got a bit lost when the servant boy was describing what happened. Maybe some interjection of physical action might set it off more? Take it with a grain of salt, right.
Thanks for the read.
Thanks, Annie! Good, I hoped the mythology background might come through. The setting is current day, on another world, where the people were originally brought there from classical Greece. They have been augmenting their population by abducting people from Earth ever since.
I very much appreciate the critique, I’ll take another look. Any input is good input, thanks!
Hi W, getting the notification for writerchick’s comment brought me and here and reminded me I wanted to say more on this part of your story. Deimo does an awful lot of cleaning. I found it a bit distracting, a bit too much, too often.
Hmm. Fair enough. I know that’s what Deimo’s going to be doing–as he says, he can’t have Oso do it, and there’s no one else he can trust. I’ll think about it. Is it the word that’s obtrusive due to repetition, or the activity itself? I’ll try to think of another way around it.
For me, it was just over-mentioned a few times. I got it that there was a lot of carnage and it needed cleaning, and that Deimo had to do it. I think it was the word that ground, and not the activity.
Hello, PD! I reviewed the piece and made some changes. Hope this “cleans” it up to your satisfaction! (Sorry, couldn’t resist!)
Hmmm … nope, sorry Gorgeous, I liked it better before. Just kidding. Hee hee. I think that part is better without the overuse. It doesn’t have to be minimalist, I think. There just needs to be a balance in bringing the reader into the scene and showing the gore, and making the reader feel they’re on kitchen duty themselves.
To be honest, PD, I never even noticed the repetition. Whether that was because I was just too close to it or just asleep at the keyboard, I dunno. Maybe next time I’ll do that word thing where you run your text through and it makes a picture, with the most common words larger and brightly colored. Except I’d probably have the word “the” in two-inch-high scarlet letters!
By the way, did you know there aren’t a lot of useful synonyms for the verb “to clean?” Scour, scrub, wash, bathe and rinse were pretty much it unless I wanted to get all frilly and polysyllabic. NOT. Who the hell but a scientist uses absterge, depurate or elutriate? And under “wash” it was worse: rinse, soak, shower, float, hose, moisten, and for pity sakes “imbue.” Oy.
Oh, this was the link: http://www.wordle.com
Cool. I’ll review.
I enjoyed your structure and delivery. The concealed rage at the impotence of all involved is compelling and tragic. It is clear to me the situation will go South. It’s just a matter of time. Nicely done. I think your book(s) will be successful and find a very willing audience.
Thank you so much for the kind words, Ebonstorm! Yes, indeed, it does go south from there. As with any story, it must get worse before it gets better. Very soon, though (or perhaps it has already happened–I haven’t quite decided yet) he will meet the protagonist of the story, Ari Dillon. And they will never be the same…