"How does it feel.. when she beats you, how does it feel inside?"
Such a question to ask me! How could I .. I who can barely explain a happy feeling in words that make some sort of sense.. except to answer such a heavy question? As he could possibly understand the hatred Eliza has for me, or how she beats that into me. He has surely never been beaten, never been whipped by an angry woman. What does he know about pain and suffering!
"Like being eaten up form the inside."
But still, he touched my hands and let me touch his face. I want to bring him cool cloths for his wounds and wipe away the seeping weeping muck. I wonder though, if he did not sustain his wounds in a fight for sport.. then was he in a real fight? I have never seen a fight that wasn't for sport, though I have heard of men fighting over a slave. A romantic notion but I'm sure cannot be true.
The again.. Master Damos and the Poet lady.. does that constitute a fight? Or simply attempted murder?
On another note, I looked for the Poet the last few evenings. I made excuses to drift by the Great Theater or the house with the red door that I have heard is his home. But I have not seen him. I believe now that Eliza has finally won and driven him away at last. I stupidly mentioned the red door to her, only because the color.. on a door, seems so scandalous to me. But it draws me in too. I want to run my fingers over it, the color.. deep red reminds me of blood which reminds me strangely of Eliza. Everything comes back to Eliza.
I will not eat today for my mention of the poet and his door.
Such a question to ask me! How could I .. I who can barely explain a happy feeling in words that make some sort of sense.. except to answer such a heavy question? As he could possibly understand the hatred Eliza has for me, or how she beats that into me. He has surely never been beaten, never been whipped by an angry woman. What does he know about pain and suffering!
"Like being eaten up form the inside."
But still, he touched my hands and let me touch his face. I want to bring him cool cloths for his wounds and wipe away the seeping weeping muck. I wonder though, if he did not sustain his wounds in a fight for sport.. then was he in a real fight? I have never seen a fight that wasn't for sport, though I have heard of men fighting over a slave. A romantic notion but I'm sure cannot be true.
The again.. Master Damos and the Poet lady.. does that constitute a fight? Or simply attempted murder?
On another note, I looked for the Poet the last few evenings. I made excuses to drift by the Great Theater or the house with the red door that I have heard is his home. But I have not seen him. I believe now that Eliza has finally won and driven him away at last. I stupidly mentioned the red door to her, only because the color.. on a door, seems so scandalous to me. But it draws me in too. I want to run my fingers over it, the color.. deep red reminds me of blood which reminds me strangely of Eliza. Everything comes back to Eliza.
I will not eat today for my mention of the poet and his door.
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