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The Cycle (possible content warning)
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She could feel the force running through her veins, that unknown energy that empowered her. The rush of adrenaline excitement blended with her rage. She could feel the darkness creeping under her skin, the nightmarish feeling exhilarated and invigorated her.
She felt the smouldering embers and clouds of brimstone in her lungs. Her body was a shell of white-hot metals. An armour of rage. Though she knew how warped her physical self had become, she could tell that her mind was still familiar to her. Her judgement was clear, her thoughts unclouded, undoubted, untamed. Wrath permeated her every fibre, enhancing this new experience. She walked the path of fury, and it had led her to a place that she had never before understood. There was no longer a place for fear. Through the crucible of anger, she was forged anew. *** He could feel each and every blow as it somehow pierced the cloud of stupor that permeated his body. What was that weakness inside of him? He could feel it's bite every time he was struck, and each time some of him was swallowed. With every single hit, he became less. How was one meant to withstand this? He could feel his own weakness: a parasite, leeching away at his mind, body, and soul. He could tell that his assailant now possessed that which he lacked: Strength. Without strength there was only weakness. And his attacker had stolen it from him. The pain was tearing at him like a hound tears at a steak. The torturous beating was seemingly endless. The eternity of agony continued even as he wept, drooled, and bled on the cold earth itself. Even accompanied by his tormentor, he was alone. Exiled from the world by the impotence inflicted on him. He could barely comprehend his surroundings, much less control his rapidly deteriorating body. With shaking limbs and ever-increasing pain, he managed to force his body to move. In between blows, he managed to turn himself, if only enough that he could see who was trying to break him. A new wave of pain crashed down on him when his weakened cognitive powers managed to tell him who his tormentor was. His mouth cracked open in a slackjawed expression of despair, his hand reached forth, shaking with pain and effort, but a cruel swing of the attacker's weapon smashed it back into the ground, before resuming it's assault on the rest of him. *** She denied her Tormentor's plea for mercy. Just as her own pleas had been denied. With a thrust, she delivered a justice that had been lying dormant for far too long. With another she delivered it once more. Each and every swing was a perfect reimbursement of her own suffering. There was a time when she would have refused to believe in heroes. How ironic that she had become her own. She stood over the crumpled form of evil, as it wallowed at her feet, disgusted. She looked into the face of malice with cold contempt. It was a truly hateful thing to look upon. A sight unworthy of her gaze. When she saw the face of the Tormentor, a storm began to brew. Clouds of midnight black began to brew inside her, and soon, she attacked with renewed vigor. The screams of the Tormentor were drowned out by thunderous winds and the howl of rain. *** How long had it been since his Tormentor had left? He did not know. How had his Tormentor taken what was his? He did not know. Why had his Tormentor done this to him? He knew. He had no idea how much time had passed since She had abandoned him. She had beaten him to within an inch of his life, shown him that She had stolen his strength and in return, left him with her weakness. Where he had had once been the Tormentor, he was now the Tormented. Then She had left him. Helpless, injured so badly that he couldn't move. The cycle had moved on. |
She could feel the force running through her veins, that unknown energy that empowered her. The rush of adrenaline excitement blended with her rage. She could feel the darkness creeping under her skin, the nightmarish feeling exhilarated and invigorated her.
She felt the smouldering embers and clouds of brimstone in her lungs.
Her body was a shell of white-hot metals.
An armour of rage.
Though she knew how warped her physical self had become, she could tell that her mind was still familiar to her. Her judgement was clear, her thoughts unclouded, undoubted, untamed.
Wrath permeated her every fibre, enhancing this new experience.
She walked the path of fury, and it had led her to a place that she had never before understood.
There was no longer a place for fear.
Through the crucible of anger, she was forged anew.
***
He could feel each and every blow as it somehow pierced the cloud of stupor that permeated his body. What was that weakness inside of him? He could feel it's bite every time he was struck, and each time some of him was swallowed. With every single hit, he became less. How was one meant to withstand this? He could feel his own weakness: a parasite, leeching away at his mind, body, and soul.
He could tell that his assailant now possessed that which he lacked: Strength.
Without strength there was only weakness. And his attacker had stolen it from him.
The pain was tearing at him like a hound tears at a steak. The torturous beating was seemingly endless. The eternity of agony continued even as he wept, drooled, and bled on the cold earth itself.
Even accompanied by his tormentor, he was alone. Exiled from the world by the impotence inflicted on him. He could barely comprehend his surroundings, much less control his rapidly deteriorating body.
With shaking limbs and ever-increasing pain, he managed to force his body to move. In between blows, he managed to turn himself, if only enough that he could see who was trying to break him.
A new wave of pain crashed down on him when his weakened cognitive powers managed to tell him who his tormentor was.
His mouth cracked open in a slackjawed expression of despair, his hand reached forth, shaking with pain and effort, but a cruel swing of the attacker's weapon smashed it back into the ground, before resuming it's assault on the rest of him.
***
She denied her Tormentor's plea for mercy. Just as her own pleas had been denied.
With a thrust, she delivered a justice that had been lying dormant for far too long. With another she delivered it once more. Each and every swing was a perfect reimbursement of her own suffering.
There was a time when she would have refused to believe in heroes. How ironic that she had become her own.
She stood over the crumpled form of evil, as it wallowed at her feet, disgusted.
She looked into the face of malice with cold contempt. It was a truly hateful thing to look upon. A sight unworthy of her gaze.
When she saw the face of the Tormentor, a storm began to brew. Clouds of midnight black began to brew inside her, and soon, she attacked with renewed vigor.
The screams of the Tormentor were drowned out by thunderous winds and the howl of rain.
***
How long had it been since his Tormentor had left? He did not know.
How had his Tormentor taken what was his? He did not know.
Why had his Tormentor done this to him? He knew.
He had no idea how much time had passed since She had abandoned him. She had beaten him to within an inch of his life, shown him that She had stolen his strength and in return, left him with her weakness. Where he had had once been the Tormentor, he was now the Tormented.
Then She had left him.
Helpless, injured so badly that he couldn't move.
The cycle had moved on.
She felt the smouldering embers and clouds of brimstone in her lungs.
Her body was a shell of white-hot metals.
An armour of rage.
Though she knew how warped her physical self had become, she could tell that her mind was still familiar to her. Her judgement was clear, her thoughts unclouded, undoubted, untamed.
Wrath permeated her every fibre, enhancing this new experience.
She walked the path of fury, and it had led her to a place that she had never before understood.
There was no longer a place for fear.
Through the crucible of anger, she was forged anew.
***
He could feel each and every blow as it somehow pierced the cloud of stupor that permeated his body. What was that weakness inside of him? He could feel it's bite every time he was struck, and each time some of him was swallowed. With every single hit, he became less. How was one meant to withstand this? He could feel his own weakness: a parasite, leeching away at his mind, body, and soul.
He could tell that his assailant now possessed that which he lacked: Strength.
Without strength there was only weakness. And his attacker had stolen it from him.
The pain was tearing at him like a hound tears at a steak. The torturous beating was seemingly endless. The eternity of agony continued even as he wept, drooled, and bled on the cold earth itself.
Even accompanied by his tormentor, he was alone. Exiled from the world by the impotence inflicted on him. He could barely comprehend his surroundings, much less control his rapidly deteriorating body.
With shaking limbs and ever-increasing pain, he managed to force his body to move. In between blows, he managed to turn himself, if only enough that he could see who was trying to break him.
A new wave of pain crashed down on him when his weakened cognitive powers managed to tell him who his tormentor was.
His mouth cracked open in a slackjawed expression of despair, his hand reached forth, shaking with pain and effort, but a cruel swing of the attacker's weapon smashed it back into the ground, before resuming it's assault on the rest of him.
***
She denied her Tormentor's plea for mercy. Just as her own pleas had been denied.
With a thrust, she delivered a justice that had been lying dormant for far too long. With another she delivered it once more. Each and every swing was a perfect reimbursement of her own suffering.
There was a time when she would have refused to believe in heroes. How ironic that she had become her own.
She stood over the crumpled form of evil, as it wallowed at her feet, disgusted.
She looked into the face of malice with cold contempt. It was a truly hateful thing to look upon. A sight unworthy of her gaze.
When she saw the face of the Tormentor, a storm began to brew. Clouds of midnight black began to brew inside her, and soon, she attacked with renewed vigor.
The screams of the Tormentor were drowned out by thunderous winds and the howl of rain.
***
How long had it been since his Tormentor had left? He did not know.
How had his Tormentor taken what was his? He did not know.
Why had his Tormentor done this to him? He knew.
He had no idea how much time had passed since She had abandoned him. She had beaten him to within an inch of his life, shown him that She had stolen his strength and in return, left him with her weakness. Where he had had once been the Tormentor, he was now the Tormented.
Then She had left him.
Helpless, injured so badly that he couldn't move.
The cycle had moved on.
© thekingofpillowland 2014-2023
I wrote this very quickly, so it may be rather flawed, but it has some deep meanings, if you'd like to discuss them, then feel free to talk to me. If you'd rather not....well, there's the door.
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| Submitted | Dec 3, 2014 |
| Last Edited | Dec 3, 2014 |
| Size | 4 KiB |
| Characters | 3831 |
| Words | 647 |
| Sentences | 57 |
| Paragraphs | 79 |
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| Comments | 21 (0 today) |
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© 2023 Route 50. All rights reserved. Pokémon © Pokémon Inc/Nintendo.
To be fair, yes I could have focused on the "ethereal" and "metaphysical" aspects of my story, if I had wished to do so. But I think of this story as a piece of cold, hard, reality. Sure, I use a metaphor here or there, but I never try to disguise the horrors of this torturous event.
To me, "the cycle" is not some supernatural thing, it is merely a name for what happened in the past, is happening in the present, and is going to happen in the future. (At least in the context of the story.)
But nonetheless, good story X3
Well, basically this is about something that most people heard or seen once i their life. Actually, now that I think about it, this thing represents more than I said before.
My first thought was it is about slavery. Here, in what you made, there is a FEMALE tormentor and a MALE being tormented by the former. But that wasn't the case first, it was the other way around. The male being the tormented and the female being tormented. If my memory is good as it was, then I heard that long ago, females where were slaves to males then. I won't pin point where and when though, for my memory is not as good as an Alakazam. Anyways, so yeah, female slaves and master males.
HERE, you made the female rebelled against the male and of course turning her the tormentor, finally decided that enough was enough and the male turned to being the tormented, with the female hurting him like he did to her. And like you said, "The cycle had moved on" meaning the previous one was done BUT a new one will appear.
Second was that, this represents both bullying and karma. ( I'm winging this comment so...) The former you understand that already and the latter being the male finally met the wench karma and he felt the same as the ones he bullied.
Third was the position of both genders. We all know what women are and what they do from long ago. Your work, described the first brutal way of wives standing up against there abusive husbands. Of course what you made here does happen, but not that extreme. Just a slap in face or kick in the place will be enough for them.
And lastly this thing represents what I said from the first one till the last. Rebellion. This, is not far from what rebellion is capable of. It can be as peaceful as a child having a tantrum to something much worse. I won't be defining to much of the latter because it might upset someone here or bring up bad memories or events.
Whew! so... ... yeah, I didn't get understand some of the deepest ones. Hopefully I explained what I think I understand about this...
(Nevertheless, with my astonishment comes a sense of pride, that someone can find so much meaning in this one, incredibly short, work.)
In actuality, I wrote this with the underlying theme of bullying. I tried to imply that in the past, the Boy had been in a position of power (the Tormentor) over the Girl. In other words, he bullied her.
But the story isn't called "the Cycle" for nothing.
The Boy is destined to lose his position of dominance, and indeed, one day the Girl turns the tables on him. Out of desperation, she "steals his strength" as it were, and becomes the strong one. Her attack is just a way of letting him know that he is now the weak one.
The cycle has (inevitably) moved on, as hate can only create hate, and so, the Girl is "Forged anew in the crucible of anger." I tried to show that even though the Girl had become the bully, she still thought it justifiable to hurt him, because He had hurt her. Violence breeds only violence.
Which isn't to say, your interpretation is any less true, valid, or impressive. In fact I like the fact that people think of things differently, even if I was the one that made them.
Anyways, no i do not have a yahoo mail account, however you can can contact me via the email address on my base, or by the skype account, also on my base.
...I made it when I was younger, that's why it's ridiculous.