Jezebel has been spending his time inside of his new home, recovering from the tortures he's inflicted. There are bruises on his neck, his wrists, and his ankles, deep-blossoming and stark on his pale skin. Every breath he takes is shaky, his larynx still recovering from near-strangulation.
In a way, he feels satisfied. He handled himself well, he thinks. It had been nightmarish, but he knew how to take a discipline. If this was to be hell -- and, indeed, this very much seemed to be hell -- at least he knew he could still accept punishments without disgracing himself.
When he hears someone sitting on his steps, he glances out the front door, wondering if he is about to face more terrors. Instead, he sees another punished soul, taking a rest on his steps.
"You're sitting at my house," he says, his voice sounding strangled when he speaks. His tone isn't angry, mostly just curious, wondering if they'd mistaken their own dwellings for his.
02
In a way, he feels satisfied. He handled himself well, he thinks. It had been nightmarish, but he knew how to take a discipline. If this was to be hell -- and, indeed, this very much seemed to be hell -- at least he knew he could still accept punishments without disgracing himself.
When he hears someone sitting on his steps, he glances out the front door, wondering if he is about to face more terrors. Instead, he sees another punished soul, taking a rest on his steps.
"You're sitting at my house," he says, his voice sounding strangled when he speaks. His tone isn't angry, mostly just curious, wondering if they'd mistaken their own dwellings for his.