Chapter Five: 1993

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January 10th

Sicily, Italy.  

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The thorn of the blue roses seems so red,
Bloated carcasses finding their way out,
The scars...can't you see it? it's still red

Happy, sometimes is one in a million,
Billion people, gazillion emotions
Pain could be an angel, Pain could be a python

By Jade via ww.hellopoetry.com

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She thought hell was an inferno, so hot, just a mere glance at its unholy gates has your eyes crying for redemption.

Then why was she shivering like a leave, why did her hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

She didn't know then, but this was one of his many forms of torture, waiting, patience, silence. The mind was weak and vulnerable yet strong and resilient, it played so many tricks on the average person but it refuses to break easily.

Piero De Pablo liked her fear, he enjoyed the way she shivered in anticipation, and how her fingers curled into her shirt and her spine became as straight as an arrow in apprehension.

However it wasn't the fear that titillated him, it was the refusal to break, the refusal to bend to his will. He wanted to see how long this air of defiance would last.

Maybe she should have bent to his will earlier, succumb to his reign, it would have saved her hours of pain, years of terror.

It happened so fast she did not have time to brace for the blow; her body fell forward, her mind shattered and the only thing she could register is pain.

The pain danced on the flesh of her cheek; it was hopping and prancing in glee.

Another blow, fiercer than the first slammed across her arm; it bit the skin like ice bites the flesh in winter. Her body trembled as her eyes cried in sorrow.

Another blow slapped across her back and she bowed it and wailed, wailed like a woman who just lost her child.

He painted her with his power, his masculinity, and his reign. Blow after blow, her coloured her skin with red, blue, black and purple, his brush pressed deep into her skin, broke it, cracked it.

When it was over, when the anger melted from his body just as fast as it came, he left, slipped his buckle back into his waist and left.

He left his Padrona on the blood soaked carpet, curled into a ball, arms wrapped around her trembling body. He left her there with words whispered so calmly and so softly "I hope that you learned your lesson."

And learn she did. Trust was for the weak, this is the deep sea, you either swim or you die.

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STORM CLOUDS

Purple
storm clouds blown in
by the turbulent winds
haven't enough rain to wash off
your pain.

By Madhumita via www.hellopoetry.com

Next Chapter on the 24th of August 2017. 

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