Independent Writing for World Literature

Blog for August 24, 2011

“How much more of this must we endure Gerald?”  Henry muttered in a high pitched whimper, tears streaming down his face.  His naked torso was covered in blood from a lashing he had received just moments before.  His nose was filled with the smell of filth, blood, and death.  That was the third lashing session that day, and it was only 1:00 p.m.  “A few more days of this madness and we’ll both be dead,” said Gerald, grabbing Henry tenderly about the arms as if to not hurt his wounds and pulling him towards his clothed chest.  Henry’s tension eased, and his muscles became weak as he willingly fell in his brother’s arms.  Since their imprisonment, Gerald had often showed a concern and love for him that Henry believed a mother could only possess, lying like a sick helpless crying baby in the arms of his mother, and he was content.  “Now don’t move, I’m going to check your wounds,” said Gerald.  “How can you?” said Henry in a rather relaxed, disinterested voice.  “It’s as dark as a cave in here.  I can’t even see my boots.  Just forget about it chap.”  “Well, if I don’t do something for them, they’ll get infected,” said Gerald.