‹ Prequel: XY Revolution
Status: Returning November 2016
XY Revolution
trois
“You can’t shoot her now!” the councillor screams, his face going an unseemly shade of purple. “She’s underage! And not here, you imbecile!”
“What should we do with her then, sir?” the man holding the gun asks impatiently. The ‘sir’ is spat out rather than used politely.
“Getting her out of here would be a start. And perhaps the town hall for judgement? I don’t know, maybe you should just all go on a coffee break and talk about golf?! Just go!” the councillor hisses and the gun shifts to the familiar notch in my back.
“Put your shirt on, bitch,” the gunman commands and I obey silently.
I can feel all the eyes on me in the crowd; male and female alike. The boys are shocked, scared even. I suppose they really haven’t seen as much death as I have. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about males, through what my father and brother revealed after the Revolution, it’s that they will use any means necessary to keep the next generation of boys in line. Propaganda is essential to the cause. We don’t want young people rising against the XY Regime after all.
The females are a mixture of terror and disappointment. I hate that. I get enough of the disappointment from my mum and Sarah. And it kills me to think that they’ve all just…given up. They’ve given up fighting it. It’s all about making it through alive, with a nice and reasonable husband, with food on the table, and at least a couple of pretty dresses.
I didn’t understand why they didn’t fight back during the Revolution, but I understand now that it really was impossible. The Revolution was in the works for years, even if commoners like my father weren’t told for only six months prior. They knew who they wanted to kill. They knew how they were going to do it. And they knew who they needed to do it in front of to set an example and ensure victory.
What I still don’t understand, is how no one fights now.
Maybe that’s just the reckless, stubborn, stupid, tantrum-throwing little girl in me.
The twelve councillors all glare down at me. My dad squeezes my hand, but his expression is all cold business.
“Freya Belmont,” Head Councillor Graham starts, his voice a drone that chills me to the bone. “Number 7298863, father and owner is one Harvey Belmont. Is that you, sir?”
“Yes,” Dad replied gruffly. The councillor knows exactly who he is, considering my father is the Chief of Police for Regular Crimes.
“And you are aware that your daughter sabotaged a televised pre-auction?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The offense is irrefutable. The evidence is clear.”
“Yes.”
“She is guilty. However, as a minor, the laws on punishment are more…difficult,” the Head Councillor informs us, placing his spidery fingers together and drumming them, reminiscent of a stereotypical emperor of evil.
“As a minor, it is my right to punish her,” my father says but I can hear the doubt in his voice. Laws in the XY Regime are never black and white.
“Normally, that would be the case. But these are no ordinary circumstances. This was a public act and an example must be made.”
“You will not murder my daughter,” Dad tells them, coolly. The unspoken threat hangs in the air.
The Head Councillor just chuckles hollowly before confirming, “Your daughter will not be given a death sentence. Perhaps an amputation of a hand ought to do the trick.”
“Absolutely not. She’s a minor.”
“Flogging on the Old Church Steps then,” the Councillor says cheerfully.
Dad’s hand almost crushes mine, but he nods.
“Done! Tomorrow at noon, twenty lashes.” The gavel goes down. “Chief Belmont, you may keep her in your cells tonight and one of my men will stay with you to make sure there’s no funny business.”
“As you wish, Councillors,” Dad concedes.
We stand to watch the procession of Councillors as they leave the Court Chamber, then Dad reaches out and hugs me tight.
“What have you done, Freya?” he whispers, relief colouring his voice.
The tears finally start to flow down my cheeks and I choke out, “I had to fight.”
He pulls me even closer.
“I’m so proud of you,” he tells me and kisses my forehead, “Just don’t tell your mum I said that.”
It’s silent when the car pulls up in front of the Old Church Steps, despite the size of the crowd. It’s a sea of faces; men all out with their women. There are cameras everywhere, photographic and video. The live stream will no doubt attract a reasonable amount of attention.
My whole body is an oxymoron – tense and jelly at the same time. I don’t even have Dad with me in the lead up. He had to go get the family so they could be here, as the court ordered to supplement my sentence. I wish Jane didn’t have to come, but there was no point in protesting that. Jane’s the one they want to make an impression on; corrupt her young mind. This will just make her stronger though. I hope.
The moment the car door opens and I’m shoved out, the crowd erupts. The noise is ridiculous, and yet no one actually will do anything. Not with the numerous snipers around. I catch a glimpse of familiar baby-blue eyes on me, but they don’t do anything either. They just watch as I’m prodded over to the post they’re going to tie me to.
When I get close enough, I’m yanked to the concrete ground. One of my guards has tripped me using the shackles on my feet. My knees are now grazed and bleeding. It must be the adrenaline, because I can actually smell the blood and I haven’t seen it yet.
My arms are wrenched out in front of me and tied to the short wooden pole. My shirt is torn off me, and I can hear the buzzing of some commentary about what naughty girls get when they challenge the Regime or something stupid like that.
The paint was washed off me last night, so there’s nothing to hide behind now. Tied to a post, and I’m about to be whipped, without anything to cover my breasts. I just try to focus on that humiliation rather than the pain I know is coming. I’ve had the cane at school before and that stings, but this is something else entirely.
Adulterous females are executed publicly, but I personally think it’s worse watching when they’re tortured, if their husband doesn’t want them killed. If a crime is committed, there must be a consequence, and a public whipping is a common choice.
I’m fourteen years old and the equivalent of an adulterous married woman. They really do take slights seriously.
The first whip hits me like a ton of bricks. The air leaves my lungs in a rush and my eyes are about to pop out of their sockets.
The second and third break the skin and they sting.
The fourth and fifth are like pouring salt into the wound.
With the six and seventh, blood starts to trickle down my back.
Eighth and ninth set my skin ablaze.
The tenth and…I don’t know blur together.
By the twentieth, I’m out cold.
Mum is teary eyed as she and Sarah clean my back. I wince every time antiseptic touches me unexpectedly, but there’s no way I’m letting these wounds get infected.
“So strong, baby,” Mum keeps muttering, like a prayer almost. “So strong.”
Dad walks in occasionally, letting me sip some ice-cold water. I’m covered in sweat most of the time, and the blood loss has given my skin a grey tinge. I hate to think what my hair looks like now.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “You didn’t give them the satisfaction, and you stood up for something.”
“Writing a swear word on my chest is hardly the most rebellious thing ever.”
“It still took guts.”
That’s when I start to bawl and fog up my glasses.
Jane’s already in our shared bed by eight o’clock. She wasn’t allowed to watch my parents carry me inside, still passed out, bleeding, but I’m sure she heard my screams when the stitches started to go in.
Her big black eyes, so like mine, are wide and peeking above the duvet when I walk in.
“Hey,” I whisper and hobble over to the bed.
Dad’s already given me some whisky to help numb the pain, and help me sleep. I can still feel my wounds tugging whenever I move the slightest bit, and I can feel them sting when the bandages shift, despite how tightly Mum tried to get them on.
Jane doesn’t say anything when I crawl in, lying carefully on my stomach, on top of the bed covers. Mum said I could end up with a fever if I’m not careful. Apparently a doctor really should have seen to my gashes, but that’s part of the punishment under the XY Regime. If you’re given corporal punishment, you are not allowed to take advantage of professional medical care. I’m glad some strange man wasn’t the one to touch my raw skin, and hear me scream. Plus, you never know if they’re going to heal you, or make you worse. I haven’t been to the hospital since prior to the Revolution.
“I thought you were going to die,” she states in that quiet little voice of hers.
Her hands are trembling and I take one of them with my own, and kiss the top of it. Tears start streaming down her porcelain face.
“I was so scared.”
“So was I.”
“Promise me, Freya. Promise me you won’t make them mad again.”
I take a deep breath in, holding her dark gaze, before I tell her, “No. I can’t ever do that.”
To my astonishment, she responds, “Good.”
“How is that good?” I ask.
“Because I don’t want to be like Mum and Sarah. If you’re a fighter, I can be one too. I can be strong with you.”
I squeeze Jane’s hand, and feel a smile creep onto my face for the first time in a long time.
“What should we do with her then, sir?” the man holding the gun asks impatiently. The ‘sir’ is spat out rather than used politely.
“Getting her out of here would be a start. And perhaps the town hall for judgement? I don’t know, maybe you should just all go on a coffee break and talk about golf?! Just go!” the councillor hisses and the gun shifts to the familiar notch in my back.
“Put your shirt on, bitch,” the gunman commands and I obey silently.
I can feel all the eyes on me in the crowd; male and female alike. The boys are shocked, scared even. I suppose they really haven’t seen as much death as I have. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about males, through what my father and brother revealed after the Revolution, it’s that they will use any means necessary to keep the next generation of boys in line. Propaganda is essential to the cause. We don’t want young people rising against the XY Regime after all.
The females are a mixture of terror and disappointment. I hate that. I get enough of the disappointment from my mum and Sarah. And it kills me to think that they’ve all just…given up. They’ve given up fighting it. It’s all about making it through alive, with a nice and reasonable husband, with food on the table, and at least a couple of pretty dresses.
I didn’t understand why they didn’t fight back during the Revolution, but I understand now that it really was impossible. The Revolution was in the works for years, even if commoners like my father weren’t told for only six months prior. They knew who they wanted to kill. They knew how they were going to do it. And they knew who they needed to do it in front of to set an example and ensure victory.
What I still don’t understand, is how no one fights now.
Maybe that’s just the reckless, stubborn, stupid, tantrum-throwing little girl in me.
The twelve councillors all glare down at me. My dad squeezes my hand, but his expression is all cold business.
“Freya Belmont,” Head Councillor Graham starts, his voice a drone that chills me to the bone. “Number 7298863, father and owner is one Harvey Belmont. Is that you, sir?”
“Yes,” Dad replied gruffly. The councillor knows exactly who he is, considering my father is the Chief of Police for Regular Crimes.
“And you are aware that your daughter sabotaged a televised pre-auction?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The offense is irrefutable. The evidence is clear.”
“Yes.”
“She is guilty. However, as a minor, the laws on punishment are more…difficult,” the Head Councillor informs us, placing his spidery fingers together and drumming them, reminiscent of a stereotypical emperor of evil.
“As a minor, it is my right to punish her,” my father says but I can hear the doubt in his voice. Laws in the XY Regime are never black and white.
“Normally, that would be the case. But these are no ordinary circumstances. This was a public act and an example must be made.”
“You will not murder my daughter,” Dad tells them, coolly. The unspoken threat hangs in the air.
The Head Councillor just chuckles hollowly before confirming, “Your daughter will not be given a death sentence. Perhaps an amputation of a hand ought to do the trick.”
“Absolutely not. She’s a minor.”
“Flogging on the Old Church Steps then,” the Councillor says cheerfully.
Dad’s hand almost crushes mine, but he nods.
“Done! Tomorrow at noon, twenty lashes.” The gavel goes down. “Chief Belmont, you may keep her in your cells tonight and one of my men will stay with you to make sure there’s no funny business.”
“As you wish, Councillors,” Dad concedes.
We stand to watch the procession of Councillors as they leave the Court Chamber, then Dad reaches out and hugs me tight.
“What have you done, Freya?” he whispers, relief colouring his voice.
The tears finally start to flow down my cheeks and I choke out, “I had to fight.”
He pulls me even closer.
“I’m so proud of you,” he tells me and kisses my forehead, “Just don’t tell your mum I said that.”
It’s silent when the car pulls up in front of the Old Church Steps, despite the size of the crowd. It’s a sea of faces; men all out with their women. There are cameras everywhere, photographic and video. The live stream will no doubt attract a reasonable amount of attention.
My whole body is an oxymoron – tense and jelly at the same time. I don’t even have Dad with me in the lead up. He had to go get the family so they could be here, as the court ordered to supplement my sentence. I wish Jane didn’t have to come, but there was no point in protesting that. Jane’s the one they want to make an impression on; corrupt her young mind. This will just make her stronger though. I hope.
The moment the car door opens and I’m shoved out, the crowd erupts. The noise is ridiculous, and yet no one actually will do anything. Not with the numerous snipers around. I catch a glimpse of familiar baby-blue eyes on me, but they don’t do anything either. They just watch as I’m prodded over to the post they’re going to tie me to.
When I get close enough, I’m yanked to the concrete ground. One of my guards has tripped me using the shackles on my feet. My knees are now grazed and bleeding. It must be the adrenaline, because I can actually smell the blood and I haven’t seen it yet.
My arms are wrenched out in front of me and tied to the short wooden pole. My shirt is torn off me, and I can hear the buzzing of some commentary about what naughty girls get when they challenge the Regime or something stupid like that.
The paint was washed off me last night, so there’s nothing to hide behind now. Tied to a post, and I’m about to be whipped, without anything to cover my breasts. I just try to focus on that humiliation rather than the pain I know is coming. I’ve had the cane at school before and that stings, but this is something else entirely.
Adulterous females are executed publicly, but I personally think it’s worse watching when they’re tortured, if their husband doesn’t want them killed. If a crime is committed, there must be a consequence, and a public whipping is a common choice.
I’m fourteen years old and the equivalent of an adulterous married woman. They really do take slights seriously.
The first whip hits me like a ton of bricks. The air leaves my lungs in a rush and my eyes are about to pop out of their sockets.
The second and third break the skin and they sting.
The fourth and fifth are like pouring salt into the wound.
With the six and seventh, blood starts to trickle down my back.
Eighth and ninth set my skin ablaze.
The tenth and…I don’t know blur together.
By the twentieth, I’m out cold.
Mum is teary eyed as she and Sarah clean my back. I wince every time antiseptic touches me unexpectedly, but there’s no way I’m letting these wounds get infected.
“So strong, baby,” Mum keeps muttering, like a prayer almost. “So strong.”
Dad walks in occasionally, letting me sip some ice-cold water. I’m covered in sweat most of the time, and the blood loss has given my skin a grey tinge. I hate to think what my hair looks like now.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “You didn’t give them the satisfaction, and you stood up for something.”
“Writing a swear word on my chest is hardly the most rebellious thing ever.”
“It still took guts.”
That’s when I start to bawl and fog up my glasses.
Jane’s already in our shared bed by eight o’clock. She wasn’t allowed to watch my parents carry me inside, still passed out, bleeding, but I’m sure she heard my screams when the stitches started to go in.
Her big black eyes, so like mine, are wide and peeking above the duvet when I walk in.
“Hey,” I whisper and hobble over to the bed.
Dad’s already given me some whisky to help numb the pain, and help me sleep. I can still feel my wounds tugging whenever I move the slightest bit, and I can feel them sting when the bandages shift, despite how tightly Mum tried to get them on.
Jane doesn’t say anything when I crawl in, lying carefully on my stomach, on top of the bed covers. Mum said I could end up with a fever if I’m not careful. Apparently a doctor really should have seen to my gashes, but that’s part of the punishment under the XY Regime. If you’re given corporal punishment, you are not allowed to take advantage of professional medical care. I’m glad some strange man wasn’t the one to touch my raw skin, and hear me scream. Plus, you never know if they’re going to heal you, or make you worse. I haven’t been to the hospital since prior to the Revolution.
“I thought you were going to die,” she states in that quiet little voice of hers.
Her hands are trembling and I take one of them with my own, and kiss the top of it. Tears start streaming down her porcelain face.
“I was so scared.”
“So was I.”
“Promise me, Freya. Promise me you won’t make them mad again.”
I take a deep breath in, holding her dark gaze, before I tell her, “No. I can’t ever do that.”
To my astonishment, she responds, “Good.”
“How is that good?” I ask.
“Because I don’t want to be like Mum and Sarah. If you’re a fighter, I can be one too. I can be strong with you.”
I squeeze Jane’s hand, and feel a smile creep onto my face for the first time in a long time.