CHAINS TO FREEDOM.✔

Chapter Twenty-Six

Pain seared through George's body, it burnt like hot embers. He felt his muscle rip like a piece of meat being torn apart, the skin stretch then finally tear in short, sharp, jagged fragments of agony. His scream was trapped in the back of his throat, because his breath had been forced from his lungs by the strength of the man's hand as he was pushed across the table. When it did come, it cut through the air in a long sharp screech; a train braking and skidding on cold steel rails.

"Shut ya mouth ya fuckin' shit." The hand pushed George's head hard against the cold smooth timber. "Ya keep yeself still until I's finished wid ya, ya little bastard." The man drove himself deeper into George's body.

George heard the man's breath being sucked in and his moan of pleasure as he thrust harder. He closed his eyes, his fingernails clawed at the table's top, tearing them from his skin. He no longer screamed. Hatred scorched his brain as the man kept pounding and tearing into his body. George took himself away from that moment. He concentrated on the feel of his cheek rubbing against the hard timber of the table's surface, as his body was involuntary being rocked to and fro. Through the tears in his eyes he watched as the black and white cat lay crouched in the corner of the room its body ready to pounce. The cat's tail swished ever so slowly like the pendulum of a clock. The mouse, which was cornered there, waited for its doom. Time seemed to stand still until with one final thrust it was finished and George was thrown from the table.

The blacksmith was at his face holding George's chin in a vice like grip. "And ye'll keep ya mouth shut. Ye tell anyone and I'll eat ya balls for breakfast."

Nausea overwhelmed George. His body shook in an uncontrollable spasm. Tears blurred his vision of the blacksmith's face. George didn't need to see the face. He knew and hated everything about it. It's fat puffy cheeks and bulbous nose, the pitted skin and large blood shot eyes, teeth that were rotten and a stench that never ceased.

"Ah you're a weak little runt. How ya whore of a mudder ever thought ye could become a blacksmith is over me head." Saliva dribbled down the blacksmith's chin. "Go on now and clean ya self, ya filthy little bastard and bring me some food!"

"Where is that man?" Mary thundered as she came through the back door.

Jessica was sitting at the kitchen table polishing the cutlery. "Who, Mary?"

"George of course, a person can never find 'im when she needs 'im," Mary was curt as she flustered around the room. "There ain't no fire wood, will you go fetch 'im from the barn, Jessica, I'm sure he must be there an tell 'im I needs fire wood."

Jessica jumped at the chance for a break from her task. Polishing silver was something she hated most.

George waited until the blacksmith was asleep. He crept across the room and seized the butcher's knife from its block. It was old and dry blood was encrusted on its yellowing bone handle. The blade was sharp, it glinted in the moonlight. George's small hand clasped it tightly. He let it fall to his side as he approached the sleeping man. His head pounded, filled with the knowing of what he was about to do. He lifted the knife and held the point to the vein that pulsed under the greasy white skin.

"Wake up you filthy pig!" He waited until the blacksmith registered what his fate would be then sank the blade deep into his throat. George watched as the blacksmith gasped for air. He grasped the blade with his second hand and twisted until the vein split and an eruption of hot blood spouted like a fountain and streamed across his hands. Its touch burned his skin. Tears streamed down his face. Exhausted George stepped back wiping away the tears with his blood stained hands. Fierce spasms caught at his stomach. He fell to his knees and vomited violently.