Songbird, Caged
Wren opens her eyes and is immediately confused. Cold metal encircles her ankle, leading to the wall and solidly chaining her there. Twin steel bracelets cuff her wrists toghether, connected to something above her head. She can bring them down to the level of her chest, but no further.
She’s in the wine cellar, dark and freezing. Her beautiful dress is in tatters, and she can’t remember how it got that way. What happened after the recital?
“Good morning, darling.” The cellar door opens, letting in more light. Wren instantly recognizes her mother’s silhouette.
“Mother.” She watches her descend the steps. “Care to explain?”
Aurelia ignores the question, pacing in front of her. “Do you have an excuse for what you said last night?”
“What?” Wren looks up at her, baffled. “What did I say?”
“’I’m really proud of myself,’ darling? Really? Your loose tongue is going to ruin this family! You’ve painted us to be arrogant! Do you know how many media outlets came to hear that voice of yours?” Mother gets more worked up with every word. “And how many of them heard you praising your own performance? Shameful, wretched, revolting little-! At least your sisters were humble!”
Wren shrinks back with every word.
Why can’t you be more like your sisters?
She’s heard that more times than she can count. Why can’t she be more like Perfect Summer and Fawn?
Pretty, perfect, talented, blonde, intelligent.
Anger bubbles inside of her, rivaling that of her mother. And suddenly she’s standing with no memory of doing so, eyes blazing, her voice echoing in the dry cellar. “I won’t apologize for what I said, Mother. My song was good! Better than I’ve ever sang it! A- and I refuse to be shamed for saying so!”
Aurelia approaches, cold, calculating, and put together. And slaps her across the face, shoves her back into the wall.
“Stay down there if you know what’s good for you. I thought for sure you were going to be my pride and joy, with that beautiful voice of yours. Yes, Summer and Fawn have their talents, but you truly knew how to use yours.”
Wren brings her hand to her stinging cheek, wincing and watching as Aurelia fiddles with some sort of contraption in her hands. What is that thing? “And then I realized there was a downside to your voice, my darling songbird.”
As soon as Wren realizes what it is, she lurches back against her chains. “You’re not putting that thing on me.”
“Oh, yes I am. Shut your mouth, you little hussy, before I do something you’ll regret,” she hisses back.
Wren pulls away. “I don’t talk too much, you just think I say the wrong things-”
That was the wrong thing to say.
Aurelia storms over and wastes no time in fastening the muzzle over Wren’s face, despite her struggling and protests. Then she picks something from a shelf that’s not a wine bottle, turning back to face her with a sadistic smile.
“We’ll start with fifteen lashes. Every sound is another five lashes. The sooner you learn your lesson, the sooner it’s over. Sounds fair to me, don’t you think?”
Wren just glares, following her every move as Aurelia rips open the back of her dress. She makes a noise of protest, leading to a tsk from her mother.
“Five more lashes already? You may have a long way to go.”
She’s turned to face the wall, staring straight ahead into the darkness of the corner and shivering at the cold air on her bare skin. Nothing happens for several moments.
Wren grunts as the whip slices across her back with no warning, jolting forward.
“Twenty-four lashes now!” Aurelia announces.
The whip comes down over and over, mercilessly, wrenching screams and gasps from Wren. She twists and writhes as best she can, trying to land the whip on unmarked skin in an effort to reduce the pain, but it doesn’t matter. Her back is split open, weeping blood.
“Five more lashes,” Aurelia says gleefully with each squeak from Wren, seeming to relish in every strike.
When she stops, Wren sags in her chains, most of her weight hanging from the eyehook in the ceiling as her vision starts graying out around the edges.
“Tired already?” Her mother and captor lifts her chin with the butt of the whip. “Darling, we’re not even halfway there. Take care not to pass out, we don’t want to start your lesson all over again, do we?”
Wren’s eyes widen and she shakes in her chains. Stay awake. She doesn’t think she can take much more of this, and they’re not even close to done. She hunches over, clamping her hands over her mouth to suppress her squeaks that make it past the muzzle. She can only endure.
The whip cracks again, and she screams into the muzzle.
Ninety-five lashes later, Wren sags in her chains, regulating her breathing to be silent. Her eyes are dull, her body shaking, tears streaming down her face. Blood weeps from her wounds, the angry red lines criss-crossing her entire back and even her shoulders. Even the frigid air of the cellar seems to agitate them further.
Her hands are still securely fixed over her mouth with as much force as she can muster, muffling her choked, heaving breaths.
Her lungs scream at her that she isn’t getting enough air, but she forces herself to breathe silently through her nose. She learned quickly that every audible, shuddering breath earned her five more stripes of agony.
“Now, darling, have you learned your lesson?”
Wren manages to lift her head and nods wearily.
“What was that, darling?”
Now she’s wary. Is this a test? She nods again, barely able to muster the energy to lift her head.
“I can’t hear you, sweetheart.”
Hesitant, Wren mumbles a yes into the muzzle.
“Tsk, tsk, clearly you haven’t learned a thing. Five more lashes.”
Despair overcomes her, and she nearly wails into the muzzle. But she doesn’t.
Wren huddles into herself, presses her hands over her mouth, and waits for the whip to come crashing down.
