Title: Fifteen
Rating: R for violence/torture and implied rape
Author's Notes: This is very unpleasant. Very unpleasant. You've been warned.
His shirt was already off—they'd torn it from him immediately, two men stretching his arms out and forcing him to his knees down into the mud that had been stirred up by yesterday's downpour, keeping his back exposed. He vaguely wondered where he would get new clothes, because the prison didn't really provide him much. He heard the crunch of Perkins's boots on the dirt and gravel behind him, and braced himself.
He wasn't sure what he'd done to merit punishment this time—he was never sure. He hadn't been sure even when he'd been sentenced to life. He'd stopped asking the guards a long time ago, and he'd stopped asking God shortly after. Nobody ever explained things. That's the way it was on Devil's Island. Maybe it was justified, maybe it wasn't, but either way, he was going to be whipped.
And this time, he was going to endure fifteen lashes with the heavy whip—the one that was ragged and hard and wielded by the man who worked wonders with the thing. Fairly severe. He supposed he must have done something dreadful.
He heard the telltale whir of that lash through the air a second before it hit, and, as always, he couldn't help but arch his back as that cruel leather ripped through his flesh, tearing a long, thick line through his already scored and uneven skin.
One.
He grit his teeth. He wasn't going to scream immediately. There was no point in screaming—he still had fourteen more, and Perkins always took his time. If he really felt like it, he could scream later. In fact, he had a feeling he would. He could hear Perkins curling the whip around again, preparing to strike for the second time, always making sure that his victims could hear it coming because a spontaneous punishment was too kind—better that those he was beating anticipate it.
Two.
He tried to think of something else—all he could think of was the way Fredricks had gotten fifty lashes yesterday. Fifty lashes yesterday, and a burial in an unmarked mass grave today. Fifty had simply been too much; he'd seen Fredricks's back after it was done. Ground meat—that's what he'd thought of. Nothing but meat shoved through a grinder and slathered where his back should be. Bled to death, too much pain, some disease, the maggots that had invariably descended upon him after it was all over—all of it probably helped put him out of his misery. Somehow, it helped put his fifteen in perspective a little. But not much—it may have been fifteen, but they were his fifteen, and Fredricks wasn't alive to endure anymore of them anyway.
Three.
The two men holding him were laughing, and they were gripping his arms tighter, pushing him forward and straining his shoulders, making it feel like his arms would rip out of their sockets. They were with Perkins, and he knew it. Livingston was on his right—that man loved to hold them down, and it wasn't necessarily always for punishment. He'd seen it. And for the first few years of his sentence…he'd felt it. The very thought burned him, as always, when he remembered that—he always remembered it when these three had him down for a good beating to make him think on his sins. He recalled how Livingston cracked him in the jaw, remembered how they'd shoved his face in the mud, and Perkins…Perkins on him…
Four.
Blood was already oozing down his back in little, tickling rivulets, and he knew the cuts on his back were a deep red, filling up with blood as they went. He wondered vaguely if, by the end, he would resemble Fredricks in any way. Later, though, they would turn white and tighten, just like all the others had, but they would never go away. No, Perkins prided his work far too much to let his signature fade from the backs of the prisoners. And he usually targeted those who had the fewest scars, because they obviously hadn't been whipped enough—it was prison, he said, and you must be punished appropriately, especially if he didn't like the prisoner he was beating. That happened to be him at the moment, unfortunately—Perkins had never forgiven him for breaking his nose the very last time he'd tried to molest him so many years ago.
Five.
The end of the whip, still loose and thin with a nasty little barb at the end, licked brutally across his throat, and, against his will, he heard himself make a noise, some noise, and the men doing this to him liked that. They said things, but he didn't hear them—his throat was burning, a shallow gash across the front, and the way it had curled around him tightly had stolen what little breath he'd had left from him. He couldn't help but shake in their grip, coughing and choking. He didn't want to do it, but he couldn't stop it—and he knew he was giving Perkins ideas. He was giving Perkins too much pleasure, and strangely, on a certain level he was glad it was a public humiliation—if they'd been in private, Perkins surely would've done more.
Six.
Sometimes he forgot that he still had some skin left that was relatively tender, and he was brutally reminded with that one—Perkins had scored a long mark across his lower back, catching his side in the process. He hissed in pain, his fingernails cutting into his palms, and did not look at his side—it would do no good to look, and looking would only make it worse. He had to think of something—something to take his mind off of this, because he still had nine more to go, and nine was such a hideously big number…
Seven.
Lucy. Suddenly she was there, in his mind, but it was no comfort. He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to exorcise her, because none of him wanted her here with him now—he didn't want to associate her at all with this, and didn't want to think of how she'd not come to the dock to even say goodbye. He didn't want to think of how he'd never received a letter from her. He didn't want to think about how he would probably never see her or his daughter again. He didn't want to think about the horrible nightmare he'd had year after year, of her, married properly to that Judge, Judge Turpin, and finally Lucy was shoved away by that familiar black hate that burst to life at the mere thought of Judge Turpin, and he seized it furiously.
Eight.
The Judge. He did this to him. Judge Turpin was why he was on his knees in the mud of Devil's Island, being humiliated in front of fellow inmates, his back scarred enough already without these new ones. Judge Turpin was why he was in pain. Judge Turpin…he heard a throaty growl that almost sounded like a groan, then realized that he'd been the one to do it. He heard the man on his left—Wilkes, had to be Wilkes—say something, and then he felt his arm twist wrong, heard a loud pop near his shoulder, and someone was yelling, shouting, nearly screaming. Maybe it was him again. He wasn't sure anymore.
Nine.
Things were going fuzzy. He couldn't hold himself up much, but going slack was not an option, because the moment he did, his shoulder burst into terrible pain enough to challenge his screaming back. Through the strange ringing in his ears, he heard someone shouting obscenities, strange threats, and suddenly Perkins was in front of him, his fingers biting hard into his neck, forcing his head up. "You don' threaten me, ya piece'a shite!" he barked furiously. "Or mebbe you'n wantin' me ta double tha' lashin's!" It took him a moment to realize it must have been him to say all those things before to make Perkins so angry, and his head sagged when Perkins released him.
Ten.
He was moaning—Perkins was doubling his efforts, like he always did near the end. Not for the first time, he wished he had the strength to keep from making noise and giving those bastards the satisfaction they wanted, but ten was bad enough on the light whip, and Perkins was using the heavy one this time, and everything hurt so badly, and he'd never had fifteen with the heavy one before—five at the most. Five…five more…just five more, and it would be over…
Eleven.
But the prison sentence wouldn't be over. There would still be more opportunities for this, more times where he would be pulled out of line, pulled out of the work force and shoved to his knees, yet another shirt ripped from his back, and either the heavy whip or the light whip—or maybe a few strokes with the nine tails, he'd felt that one, too—no, the punishment wouldn't be over after the fifteen strokes were up, it would still keep coming, again and again, maybe not from Perkins again, but definitely from someone else, and he would bleed…
Twelve.
He'd feel them again, and for something he hadn't done, because he hadn't done anything, and yet here he was, in so much pain he felt sure he was about to faint, trembling and unable to breathe, his back hot with blood, his entire left arm on fire from whatever Wilkes had done to it, but it wouldn't matter when everything was done, because he'd be here again later. And in between that, there would still be the work, the harsh sun, the freezing cold, the snakes, the rats, the scorpions, the spiders, the people. Oh yes, the people, the scum that lived here, the things that truly made this place a living hell, the people who took savage advantage of the weak, the people, those scum—
Thirteen.
He didn't know if it was thirteen anymore—maybe it was seventeen, or perhaps seven. He wasn't counting anymore. And did the count matter? He was still getting it, in front of everybody there, and once again, nobody was coming to help him. Justice…it was shite. Nobody had come to his aid fourteen years go, and who knew if anybody had gone to his Lucy's aid? A strangled wail came bubbling up from his ragged throat when he thought yet again of Lucy, alone, and the Judge…the Judge, fourteen years in this place—
Fourteen.
His knees were slipping under him in the mud, and things hurt so badly now he couldn't even scream. Fourteen—fourteen what? Had that been the lash, or the year? He could hear things—there was Lucy, she was saying something, but he couldn't hear it over Turpin, Turpin declaring him a menace to society, a filthy, depraved being, and then life, life imprisonment, far away from proper civilization, life imprisonment on Devil's Island, oh God, Lucy, she needed him, he needed to get back, get back to her, get back to Judge Turpin, yes, he was going to get to Judge Turpin, and he was going to kill him, with his bare hands if he had to, because it was his fault, Turpin's fault, all of this was that son of a bitch's fault, he would pay for doing this to him—
Fifteen.
He wasn't aware of anything anymore—he didn't even realize the punishment was over. He was shivering, panting, ragged gasps being torn from his throat with every breath, hanging limp in his captors' hands. He was in agony; blood was seeping down his back, dripping down his shoulders, and soaking the waistband of his trousers. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything. He could barely hear Perkins snidely lecturing him about the consequences of wrongdoing, couldn't hear Livingston and Wilkes mocking him. Then, with a laugh, they dropped him. He landed face-first in the mud, the cool sludge seeping into his mouth and nostrils. He wanted to get up, but couldn't—he could hardly move, his left arm was completely immobile, the slightest movement or touch excruciating, and that familiar dizzy feeling was slowly creeping over him. He had enough sense to know that he didn't want to pass out in the mud…he'd suffered enough, he didn't want to just lay there in the mud, didn't want to drown in mud. But he couldn't move, and everything hurt so much…maybe it would be better to die in the mud…then things wouldn't hurt so goddamned much…but if he died, Turpin would live…
"Come on, Ben."
The rough, sorrowful whisper of Dan Thompson. He felt someone grabbing him around the waist, lifting him up, but then things just became too much, and with a piteous groan, he succumbed to the swirling darkness.
Danny had been here long enough to know the tricks of the island. He, like the man lying unconscious before him, was in it for life, and he'd been here for twenty years already, still unsure how he'd managed to survive for that long. However, as miserable as it was, he still knew things, like what plants, when crushed and mixed in water, could help make a numbing agent to dull the pain that came with the prison term. He dipped the dirty rag into the water again, then carefully dabbed it onto Ben's back, squeezing the cloth over the gashes.
Perkins had outdone himself. Every mark was a distinguished, deep, dark red cut, but the bleeding had finally slowed down to nearly nothing, even though his rag still came back red. He'd already reset Ben's arm; Wilkes had twisted it right out of its socket, and the black and purple bruises wouldn't make work tomorrow any easier. Poor Ben…Danny hated watching what this place did to good men. Danny had never quite believed what they'd said about him. When he'd first arrived, Ben had been too small, too quiet, too…innocent, really, to do that. No, somewhere in London, the scales had been tipped out of his favor. And him with a wife and kid at home, too.
Danny had no idea what had drawn him to the gentleman. Perhaps it was because he hadn't immediately banded with another group, like he himself hadn't. He'd kept to himself, quietly laboring, quietly eating when they got food, sitting alone and thinking about who knew what, and then he'd silently take anything else thrown his way. Danny supposed it was because Ben really did seem innocent—at least at first. If he'd come in the way he was now, he'd not have believed it. The irony of that particular situation was not lost upon him—only now, fourteen years after he'd been sent to this hellhole, was he capable of murder. Or at the very least, severe bodily harm. No one ever went near Ben anymore—too much effort, having to get three men to hold the bastard down.
A soft groan directed his attentions back to Ben. He was stirring feebly, and Danny knew he'd only cause more hurt to himself if he tried to get up, so he carefully put a hand on his shoulder. "Don' move, Ben. Ain't finished yet," he whispered. He leaned down and saw Ben's eyes were half-open, the dark rings around them more pronounced than ever. "Ya took quite a beatin'. Again, might add. You'll really be pissin' raspberry water this time."
"Again," Ben said hoarsely, and then he coughed weakly, his face contorting in pain. Danny went back to dabbing his back with the plant and water mixture.
"Yeah, again. Don' know why they done it, I suppose?"
"Does it matter?"
Danny paused for a moment, staring down at his friend. "No. It don't." He reached over and grabbed the cup of water he'd had waiting. " 'Ere—drink it, or at least try," he said, setting it down in front of Ben's nose. He stared at it, almost cross-eyed, as if trying to figure out exactly what it was. "Jus' water, Ben," Danny said, watching him wince and flinch as he worked at a particularly nasty whip mark.
"Cold," Ben murmured, his eyes closing again. "S'cold. I…"
Danny leaned down again, watching him trail off, and realized he was passing out again. Pursing his lips a little, he realized that it wouldn't be very good for Ben to go and do that, because he was genuinely concerned that he wasn't going to wake up again after this particular bout of punishment. So, hoping Ben would eventually forgive him for it and understand it was for his own good, he gently set two of his fingers on the long gash on his lower back and pressed hard.
Ben drew in a great, shuddering gasp and a rough howl was torn from his throat. He thrashed miserably, and Danny easily subdued him again. "Don' move, Ben. Jus' don' pass out again. Sorry I can't do nothin' 'bout the cold. Jus'…jus' sit there. After fourteen years, you should know tha' pain eventually goes away," he said firmly. Danny saw the way he stared at him, and he stared back, as impassive as Ben was hateful.
"It don't go away," Ben spat, and Danny watched as he struggled fiercely to sit up, and he waited patiently for him to give up. He would eventually—even though renewed anger had given him terrific energy, it was not enough. And, just as Danny thought, Ben eventually collapsed again, back glistening as the commotion had caused a couple of his marks to begin bleeding again. "It don't go away," he muttered again, face buried in his threadbare pillow.
"Stop talkin' nonsense," Danny said, slopping the rag into his bowl again. "You're gonna regret doin' tha' t'morrow. Stop aggravatin' what's already bad 'nuff."
Ben was silent for a moment before turning his head away from the moth-eaten pillow again. "Do you believe I did it?" he rasped. Danny twisted the wet rag over Ben's back again, staring at him.
"Did what?"
"You know what."
Danny regarded him shrewdly. Ben had never talked about his sentence, except perhaps to occasionally deny it when he'd gotten into the grog the prisoners managed to sneak in.
"No," Danny replied quietly, wiping more blood away, ignoring how Ben shook when he did it. "You weren't the type to do it. I've met those tha' do what they said you done. You…weren't them."
"Weren't."
Danny didn't miss the flat way Ben repeated that. Deciding he'd outstayed his welcome, he slowly got up, his aching knee giving him slight trouble. "Try'n sleep, Ben. You can use one of my shirts t'morrow. I got a spare."
Ben said nothing, and Danny took one last look at his split and horribly scarred back. Red mixed with white, the deep gashes crossing the white scars of punishment past, before slowly and carefully draping the ragged standard issue blanket across Ben's bleeding back, watching his hollow eyes slowly close again.