Updated: Jan 10
Fanny Blomme had been waiting for her first Preceptor meeting for eight years. The Hebridian weather dampened her spirits, but not as much as her father whose anger knew no bounds. He was filled with self-loathing and took it out on those around him. There was a cane that took pride of place in his study. It had its own hook and was permanently bent from its use to inflict terror and pain upon its recipients. Father had named it Twinkle.
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Fanny had not yet figured out how to avoid Twinkle because Father was so unpredictable. Madmen do not use set formulas, she observed. They use spurious reasoning and fluid excuses for their actions. It seemed impossible to logically justify erratic behaviour. There was something about human cognition that Fanny was finding it hard to grasp. The mental processes involved in gaining knowledge and comprehension, these cognitive processes that humans clearly manifested, thoughts, knowing, memory data, making judgements, and problem-solving, were certainly higher-level functions of their brains. Humans were able to speak, to imagine, to understand happenings and to plan ahead. And yet her father, more than other humans, was led by some other force. He was a damaged human.
Fanny wondered if there were others, damaged humans beyond repair and yet functioning well within their social contexts; hidden, unremarkable, and yet wreaking havoc behind closed doors.
Fanny looked at the eggs on her plate. They were covered in a yellow goo that was now congealed with a hard skin, like cold custard. It made a noise when she tapped it. Father had decided to cook, a rare occurrence in the normal routine of life. Being a well-travelled sailor, he felt cosmopolitan and educated. He was perpetually self-congratulating. Like Christ from the rock, Father had risen from the gutter.
Fanny new violence was brewing. There was a cycle to it. The violence was not really anything to do with her behaviour. It was about how Father needed to release his tensions. The wound spring within him required release.
When Fanny tried to swallow the viscus gunge, her throat could not accept it and it made her gag several times. Father could hear the uncomfortable noises and they enraged him.
He circled Fanny and her young brother who was also unable to swallow the hard eggs and cold spicy sauce. He brought some of it up on his jumper and it stank.
‘You have two minutes to clear the plate’, Father hollered.
Father was gigantic, a looming figure of horror and doom. His black eyes were pools of rage and hatred. They stared down at his prey. He bellowed instructions and tapped the cane repeatedly on the side of his trousers. Fanny and her brother knew what was to come.
The swallowing was hard, harder than taking the strikes.
‘Bend over’, bellowed the gargantuan monster.
Fanny, who knew the routine, pulled up the tartan dress her mother had made and pulled down her pants.
This was part of the ritual humiliation that had become an oppressive force in her young life. It was the moment Father relished most, to watch a girl perform an active role in her own abuse. Father’s voice now triggered such fear in her that her bladder would always give out. Sometimes a lot, sometimes a trickle before she regained control of her body.
The urine trickled to her knee. Bent over and waiting for the inevitable, she watched the thin yellow fluid travel down to her white sock.
As she watched she saw her reflection in a bead of fear-induced piss……and finally she was there.
Fanny Blomme waited in the Mindzone for the Preceptor.
At last, after eight agonising years, she was at the portal.
Time would stand still and her human surroundings would become a static prop, like a painting, a backdrop of inevitables, mapped out futures, and referenced pasts marked by human actions and subjective memories. It was a relief to leave the passage of mortal timescapes.
‘Why have you left me here so long?’ asked Fanny. ‘It is an abandonment indeed. Are you not my carer, my guide, my tutor?’
The preceptor was a semi-static hologram. Colours moved around towards the centre of its form and sound pulsed into the atmosphere around a beating core.
Then the Preceptor was in front of Fanny stroking her face. It was a comfort. Fanny’s cheeks were still wet from the tears.
‘You are here to find the truth,’ said the Preceptor.
Deep down, Fanny had known that she had been sent on a voyage of discovery. If only she wasn’t in this child form, things could be quicker.
Fanny had so many questions, she didn’t know where to start.
The Preceptor smiled and comforted her, combing energy through her hair and pouring love over her frightened skin. The emotional ecstasy continued for as long as it took to remind Fanny to be strong. The solution, the discovery, was dependent upon her strength and resolve. She must not give up now. Her tribe were depending on her.
Then the Preceptor was gone.
The beating stick came with a great force and the pain was sharp. But it was over quickly and as usual, Fanny was pleased to be alive. With permission, she put her exposed genitals away.
’Now go to your room, and tomorrow there will be no food,' bellowed the monster.
Tomorrow would be a long day.
to be continued © 2020 Tale Teller