The Last Day of Mary Read's Life
Jul. 24th, 2011 06:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
primogen_vampiratePort Royale’s prisons were not known for their accommodations, but there was one saving grace; they were underground. Underground meant out of the sunlight, which meant that all she had to do was throw a blanket over Anne during the day and no one would ever be the wiser. At night, Anne would wake as though alive and protect her while she slept. The problem was dusk, when there was no one to protect her and she was really, very tired.
She knew something was wrong when she heard the crisp smack of boots on the stone floor. Rising to her feet, she walked over to the bars of their cell, glancing into the corridor. There was Rogers, swaggering in the direction of their cell door. Quickly, she stepped away from the bars, but Rogers scarcely seemed to notice. He paused by the hot fire in the middle of the corridor, between the rows of cells, twirling a branding iron like a sword. “And where is our Anne?” he asked.
“Asleep,” she replied. “She’s tired.”
“Yes, a side effect of being with child, I’m told,” Rogers continued, sticking one end of the iron into the flames. “But I see you’re fresh as a daisy.”
“Yes,” she said carefully.
“Tell me. How long do you think that lie will serve you?”
“What do you mean?”
Rogers turned to glare at her. His eyes had a frightening power, one that scared her back a step. “You know what I mean, Miss Read.”
It was Mrs. Barrett, but she wasn’t going to waste her breath responding to him. Instead, she sat down, perching near where Anne’s head rested, underneath the matted blanket. Rogers didn’t seem to care whether she spoke or not. He had taken out his key ring and was now flipping through the keys. How she wished Anne would wake up! Between the two of them, they would be able to escape, if he opened the door. Without Anne, she was a prisoner.
“Calico Jack hangs soon,” Rogers said, opening the door and letting himself into the cell. He made his way over to her and she quickly stood up, to keep him from touching Anne or upsetting the blanket. Rogers trailed his fingers across her neck. “And you will too, I imagine.”
“You will maintain your distance from me,” she told him icily.
Rogers didn’t seem to care what she said, though. He leaned forward, running his nose along her skin. “Such a pretty neck.”
She spat in his eye. “Pig!”
Rogers pulled back, striking her across the face. She would not give him the satisfaction of crying out. She barely turned her head. “A woman in your position should show the proper respect.”
“And a man in yours should not stand so close.” With that, she kneed him in the groin.
He let out a wail, as only a man could, and turned, shoving her roughly to the ground. Stumbling, a bit bow-legged, he left the cell, grabbing his branding iron out of the fire. Her eyes grew wide as she saw the glowing, orange tip of the iron, shaped like a wicked P. Rogers seemed to sense her fear, to grow stronger by it. “Allow me,” his voice cracked just a bit, though it gave her no satisfaction, “to repay your kindness.”
“Anne!” she screamed. “Anne!” It was no use, of course. The sun had not yet fully set. Rogers moved closer and closer. She backed up, scrambling to her feet only to feel the solid wall behind her. “Anne!” Rogers grabbed hold of her wrist, forcing her arm out. With the satisfaction of a madman, he pressed the iron to her arm. The pain was white hot and blinded her. She screamed, hoping her throat would burst if only to draw attention away from this pain. Her legs gave out from under her and she collapsed. Her head was swimming and everything hurt and Rogers had grabbed a handful of her dress, wrenching it up. “Anne…” she moaned. A second, searing pain spread along her inner thigh. More distressing than the heat, she felt Rogers’ hand. Her vision started to blur again, but just before she lost consciousness, she saw a pair of hands grabbing Rogers from behind.
She knew something was wrong when she heard the crisp smack of boots on the stone floor. Rising to her feet, she walked over to the bars of their cell, glancing into the corridor. There was Rogers, swaggering in the direction of their cell door. Quickly, she stepped away from the bars, but Rogers scarcely seemed to notice. He paused by the hot fire in the middle of the corridor, between the rows of cells, twirling a branding iron like a sword. “And where is our Anne?” he asked.
“Asleep,” she replied. “She’s tired.”
“Yes, a side effect of being with child, I’m told,” Rogers continued, sticking one end of the iron into the flames. “But I see you’re fresh as a daisy.”
“Yes,” she said carefully.
“Tell me. How long do you think that lie will serve you?”
“What do you mean?”
Rogers turned to glare at her. His eyes had a frightening power, one that scared her back a step. “You know what I mean, Miss Read.”
It was Mrs. Barrett, but she wasn’t going to waste her breath responding to him. Instead, she sat down, perching near where Anne’s head rested, underneath the matted blanket. Rogers didn’t seem to care whether she spoke or not. He had taken out his key ring and was now flipping through the keys. How she wished Anne would wake up! Between the two of them, they would be able to escape, if he opened the door. Without Anne, she was a prisoner.
“Calico Jack hangs soon,” Rogers said, opening the door and letting himself into the cell. He made his way over to her and she quickly stood up, to keep him from touching Anne or upsetting the blanket. Rogers trailed his fingers across her neck. “And you will too, I imagine.”
“You will maintain your distance from me,” she told him icily.
Rogers didn’t seem to care what she said, though. He leaned forward, running his nose along her skin. “Such a pretty neck.”
She spat in his eye. “Pig!”
Rogers pulled back, striking her across the face. She would not give him the satisfaction of crying out. She barely turned her head. “A woman in your position should show the proper respect.”
“And a man in yours should not stand so close.” With that, she kneed him in the groin.
He let out a wail, as only a man could, and turned, shoving her roughly to the ground. Stumbling, a bit bow-legged, he left the cell, grabbing his branding iron out of the fire. Her eyes grew wide as she saw the glowing, orange tip of the iron, shaped like a wicked P. Rogers seemed to sense her fear, to grow stronger by it. “Allow me,” his voice cracked just a bit, though it gave her no satisfaction, “to repay your kindness.”
“Anne!” she screamed. “Anne!” It was no use, of course. The sun had not yet fully set. Rogers moved closer and closer. She backed up, scrambling to her feet only to feel the solid wall behind her. “Anne!” Rogers grabbed hold of her wrist, forcing her arm out. With the satisfaction of a madman, he pressed the iron to her arm. The pain was white hot and blinded her. She screamed, hoping her throat would burst if only to draw attention away from this pain. Her legs gave out from under her and she collapsed. Her head was swimming and everything hurt and Rogers had grabbed a handful of her dress, wrenching it up. “Anne…” she moaned. A second, searing pain spread along her inner thigh. More distressing than the heat, she felt Rogers’ hand. Her vision started to blur again, but just before she lost consciousness, she saw a pair of hands grabbing Rogers from behind.
