He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to. It’s just hard, it’s hard to swing the weighty thing slick with his sweat, blood getting flung everywhere and flicked off the end of the braided leather.
“Do you know what these are, Nicholas?” His supervisor asks, tapping unmarred skin right next to the welts and slender gashes on the prisoner’s arm; Nick focuses on not reacting.
“They’re from the whip,” The eighteen-year-old answers, staring at the concrete wall just past the man scolding him.
“They’re marks of failure. You still haven’t gotten a handle of using the whip, so it snaps in toward you and cuts you. Instant consequences for inadequacy.” The man’s curt tone makes Nick feel very small, despite his ample height and muscles. He does his best to never flinch, but every time he feels the burn along his upper arms as the whip kicks up in the wrong way, another spark of panic is added to the heap stinging in his chest. He’s changed so much to survive here but it’s not enough, not yet. He still has these little failures.
“If you’re so eager to add onto your collection of new scars…”
Nick’s eyes glisten with the fear he can’t let loose in a cringe or a step back. “No, I’m learning, I’m just - the whip, it’s hard, maybe I can try something else?” He’s seen the combat knives that the senior officers carry at the hip. Big, jagged weapons that can cut through rope, skin, anything meant to give way under a blade. He wants to get to choose what weapons he uses, if he’s going to be forced to use them on people.
His supervisor steps right up to him, and Nick takes an unsteady breath. They get close when it’s time to take his lashes, or to be observed in his agony after the lashes. The supervisor leans in closer, hands wrapping around Nicholas’ upper arms, calluses rough against sore, swollen, stinging wounds.
“There’s a reason we give the new ones the whip to use. So when you fuck up, your supervisor can see it, can count how many mistakes you made.”
“I know,” Nick bites out, scared and trying so hard to hide it behind immediate frustration and pain.
“But more importantly, these help you remember, help you improve. Now. How many do you have?”
“Nnh, I don’t - I haven’t counted. S-several.”
“Let’s count, then. One, two, three, four…”
Staring down at his own arms, following his supervisor’s pointing finger to count the marks, Nicholas’ fear grows. There are far more than he thought - his supervisor counts past ten, past fifteen, and he’s not nearly done. Some of the marks are scabbed over, some in the early stages of scarring. How long will he keep making mistakes? It’s been weeks but still, his hand slips or his mind wanders or he winces at a prisoner’s scream and a new livid red mark is sliced across his skin.
It starts in his hands - it always does. The hands that are made to hold weapons and tools dripping in blood. No amount of steadying breaths will stop the tremor that’s found its way into his hands.
“Stop that quaking,” His supervisor grunts, fingers digging harder into welts.
“T-trying, sir.”
“Now, Whitmore.”
“I’m -“ Nick gasps as he’s forced to his knees, shirt yanked up to expose his barely-healed back. “Trying!”
Despite his plea-tinged cry promising effort, his hands tremble worse by the minute. He can’t stop thinking about his failure, or about the coming consequences.
“Disappointing, Nicholas.”
“Sorry, sir.”
The whip is unfurled from its clip at his supervisor’s side. This time, Nick flinches.
“No-!” Nick cries, blanket swooping upward as his fist swings. His gasps ring out in the dark of the room; his back doesn’t burn with pain, his arms aren’t torn up… but his heart is racing. His chest is heaving with shallow, rapid breaths.
His hands are shaking.