Post by Annasiel on Nov 8, 2015 3:35:01 GMT
Name: Quinn Conrad
Age: 18
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Two boys sat in a dim-lit room, one older and one younger.
Not again.
“Let’s play a game,” the older boy said. The younger boy sat in silence.
Because you couldn’t tell anyone.
“It’s a really simple game. I tell you to do something, and you do it. It’s called monarch and slave.”
“That doesn’t sound very fun.”
It wasn’t.
“Of course you wouldn’t think that. You’re an idiot.”
You learned not to argue. Arguing only got you hurt.
Eager to fit in, the younger boy reluctantly conceded. “Fine. We’ll play.”
“Alright. Pull your pants off.”
The younger boy looked at the older, somewhat confused.
“What do you…” he began, but the cold touch of iron at his throat devoured his words.
“I said pull your pants off. All slaves have to be checked, in case they’re not healthy.”
Just do it. Just get it over with.
The younger did as the older asked.
“Alright. You look up to snuff. Now, one of my advisers told me you stole from my private stores.”
The younger stood there, shivering. “W-what does that mean?”
“It means you’re going to be punished.” The older walked across the room, and grabbed poker from the fireplace. He pounded it menacingly against his palm.
“I-I don’t like this game!” the younger shouted. The older ignored him, laying the flat of the iron against his victim’s thigh.
The poker ascended. The poker swung.
The poker ascended, the poker swung.
Shouts of pain echoed around the room, dampened by the thick castle walls.
A hand grabbed the younger boy by the hair, dragging him close to an open mouth.
“You and I are going to have a lot of fun over the summer. And if you say one word to your parents, I’ll kill you.”
When the baron and his wife returned, they found their son curled up on the couch sobbing.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” his mother asked, as his father hung his shaggy overcoat above the mantle. “Did your new friend say something mean?”
“N-no.” The lie had been beaten into him with the swings of the heavy iron bar. “I fell down the st-stairs and hit m-my head.”
“Ohhh. Poor dearie. I’ll get you some ice. Did you have a fun time, other than that?”
“Y-yes. H-he’s coming over again tomorrow.”
And the day after that. And the day after that.
“I’m glad you’ve finally found someone to play with.”
“M-me too. I’m going t-to bed now, if that’s alright.”
“Alright. Goodnight, darling.”
Five years later, Quinn woke up in his bed, soaked in sweat and tears.
It’s behind you.
He climbed out of the massive four-poster, the echoes of his footfalls bouncing through the empty house.
That past is dead. That boy is dead.
The teen walked into his powder-room, splashing his face with cool water from the basin sink. He stared at his face in the murky mirror, hating every contour, every bump, every subtle shade. It looked too much like the little dead boy from long ago.
You need to fix that.
Reaching into his cabinet, Quinn pulled out a tin. He began to smear the powder into his face.
Bend over. I want to try something.
The metal box dropped onto the floor, and Quinn dry-heaved violently.When the spell passed, he bent down to pick up the container, careful not to fold at the waist.
One leg behind the other, fold your knees.
When he finished with the powder, he took a peach stick of wax to his thin lips.Under his careful hand, they became fuller.
It might be time to wax again, too. Tomorrow at the latest.
He didn’t see any growth, but better safe than sorry.
Exiting from the powder-room, he opened his wardrobe. From its depths he pulled a padded corset, which he wrapped around his waist.
Pull it tight.
Grabbing the strings, he pulled.
Tighter.
He pulled again.
Tighter.
He pulled as hard as he could, until it like his hands around your throat hurt to breathe.
Good.
He brushed down his slip, and selected a soft, silken gown from the rack. He slid it over his head, pushing his slender hands through the sleeves.
Finally, he carefully picked up a floral diadem, and began braiding it into his hair.
Mom used to wear this every day.
He sprung up from where he sat on the bed, taking a moment to look at himself in the mirror.
Herself.
Quinn Conrad. Not the Quinn who couldn’t save himself. He was a coward. This Quinn… she was strong. Assertive. A socialite.
It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.
A few light mists with a from a sickly-sweet bottle, and Quinn was out the door.