bloated stomach.
She couldn’t believe it. Why would he do that? She doubled over and coughed, on the edge of throwing up. Her eyes watered and she fought to keep everything down. Breathing became an even greater task.
The men on either side righted her and Harvester whispered, “Harvester of Sorrow,” as he rammed his fist into her gut even harder.
She couldn’t hold it back. Everything she just swallowed rushed out of her mouth and into the large bucket in a torrent. She gagged and threw up again. When she thought it was almost over, the men raised her one more time and Harvester kicked her in the stomach.
She doubled over and threw up for the fourth time, wondering if someone could die from a kick to the stomach.
She gagged so much, she couldn’t catch a breath. So this is what getting the wind knocked out of you means .
She couldn’t breathe. It felt like her stomach had closed up shop. Her diaphragm wouldn’t cooperate.
Without warning, men jumped on her again, tossed her to the floor, and held down every movable part. Even if she wanted to struggle, she had lost any resolve to give a good fight. She could barely breathe, her world going black.
Then the funnel was jammed into her mouth. She tried to shout the word ‘ No’ but the water flowed and she couldn’t swallow anymore. She couldn’t breathe, and consciousness was coming to a close.
She felt the curtain dropping, the show over. Could this really be it? Were these men going to kill her? Would her stomach explode from the force of the water shoved into her body?
“Stop!” someone yelled off in the distance.
The funnel yanked away. She was manhandled to her feet but couldn’t hold herself up anymore. They let her fall to the carpeted floor, where she curled into a ball and tried to get her breathing back to a steady rhythm.
The wheels of the water keg squeaked away, much to her relief. She thought for a moment she was dying. Whatever the reason for the reprieve, she was thankful.
The chore of regular breathing took some effort, but once she felt better, Rosina opened her eyes and looked at the old man behind his desk.
“You come into my office, disrespect me by not sitting when I ask you to. You argue with me and call me insane. You’re Italian by descent. Have you no manners? Do it again, disobey me again, and you won’t walk right for many years to come, even if you live through your torture.”
Real fear, the kind you eat and digest, consumed her. She wasn’t in the company of men. She was listening to, and being dictated to, by a man Lucifer would consider a friend.
“Now, let’s see if you have learned your lesson. Sit up in the chair that was provided for you. Do it now.”
It’s interesting how fear could also be a motivator. She had no strength to move, no will to get up, but knowing what would happen if she didn’t listen to him, somehow she found the strength. Rosina turned and crawled to the chair. She used its legs to pull herself onto the seat, and then she pushed off the carpet with her legs, dropping her butt onto the seat, without falling down once.
The effort expended further exhausted her. She panted like she’d been jogging. Her stomach felt foreign and bile lined her mouth. She tried to swallow, but the desire had left her. Spittle slowly dripped from her lips, dangling in long beads, collecting on the carpet by her feet.
“Someone, get her a Kleenex. Now.”
People shuffled behind her. A moment later a handkerchief was shoved into her hand. She wiped at her mouth and brought her eyes to the old man.
“Good,” he said. “Now I have your attention. I prefer you this way. No spunk. I believe a woman should be more docile than the demanding wench you were when you entered my office. Have I got your full attention? I really need to be clear on this. So tell me, are you listening?”
She tried to nod.
“I won’t
She couldn’t believe it. Why would he do that? She doubled over and coughed, on the edge of throwing up. Her eyes watered and she fought to keep everything down. Breathing became an even greater task.
The men on either side righted her and Harvester whispered, “Harvester of Sorrow,” as he rammed his fist into her gut even harder.
She couldn’t hold it back. Everything she just swallowed rushed out of her mouth and into the large bucket in a torrent. She gagged and threw up again. When she thought it was almost over, the men raised her one more time and Harvester kicked her in the stomach.
She doubled over and threw up for the fourth time, wondering if someone could die from a kick to the stomach.
She gagged so much, she couldn’t catch a breath. So this is what getting the wind knocked out of you means .
She couldn’t breathe. It felt like her stomach had closed up shop. Her diaphragm wouldn’t cooperate.
Without warning, men jumped on her again, tossed her to the floor, and held down every movable part. Even if she wanted to struggle, she had lost any resolve to give a good fight. She could barely breathe, her world going black.
Then the funnel was jammed into her mouth. She tried to shout the word ‘ No’ but the water flowed and she couldn’t swallow anymore. She couldn’t breathe, and consciousness was coming to a close.
She felt the curtain dropping, the show over. Could this really be it? Were these men going to kill her? Would her stomach explode from the force of the water shoved into her body?
“Stop!” someone yelled off in the distance.
The funnel yanked away. She was manhandled to her feet but couldn’t hold herself up anymore. They let her fall to the carpeted floor, where she curled into a ball and tried to get her breathing back to a steady rhythm.
The wheels of the water keg squeaked away, much to her relief. She thought for a moment she was dying. Whatever the reason for the reprieve, she was thankful.
The chore of regular breathing took some effort, but once she felt better, Rosina opened her eyes and looked at the old man behind his desk.
“You come into my office, disrespect me by not sitting when I ask you to. You argue with me and call me insane. You’re Italian by descent. Have you no manners? Do it again, disobey me again, and you won’t walk right for many years to come, even if you live through your torture.”
Real fear, the kind you eat and digest, consumed her. She wasn’t in the company of men. She was listening to, and being dictated to, by a man Lucifer would consider a friend.
“Now, let’s see if you have learned your lesson. Sit up in the chair that was provided for you. Do it now.”
It’s interesting how fear could also be a motivator. She had no strength to move, no will to get up, but knowing what would happen if she didn’t listen to him, somehow she found the strength. Rosina turned and crawled to the chair. She used its legs to pull herself onto the seat, and then she pushed off the carpet with her legs, dropping her butt onto the seat, without falling down once.
The effort expended further exhausted her. She panted like she’d been jogging. Her stomach felt foreign and bile lined her mouth. She tried to swallow, but the desire had left her. Spittle slowly dripped from her lips, dangling in long beads, collecting on the carpet by her feet.
“Someone, get her a Kleenex. Now.”
People shuffled behind her. A moment later a handkerchief was shoved into her hand. She wiped at her mouth and brought her eyes to the old man.
“Good,” he said. “Now I have your attention. I prefer you this way. No spunk. I believe a woman should be more docile than the demanding wench you were when you entered my office. Have I got your full attention? I really need to be clear on this. So tell me, are you listening?”
She tried to nod.
“I won’t
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