Part 5.
"Dance Barbaria, dance!" chants the crowd; or at least those among them who are not too busy pairing off and copulating in the stands. And, dance I do. Nailed to a cross offers little alternative.
At first I just hang from my nailed wrists, knees bent, chin on my chest, and hair in my face. I just want to die, right then and there with the least amount of fuss. If only I somehow could just snatch away the crowd’s amusement in watching me struggle and suffer nailed to this cross, I think to myself.
But it doesn't work that way. The strain on my arms is too much, as is the searing pain in my pierced wrists. My legs have begun to cramp and my breathing is constricted. I can’t just hang here like this, I have to move.
So I try to push myself up with my legs. The pain this brings to my shattered feet is almost unbearable … the iron spikes seem to press on every nerve … but I grimace and force myself up anyway. My entire body trembles under the strain and bows out away from the stipe, swinging first to the left then back to the right. For a moment I hold myself up, gulp welcome fresh air into my lungs, and then collapse back down into my hanging position, shuddering from exertion.
Before long I am compelled to repeat the process. And then repeat it again and again. Each time I do so my ability to hold myself up wanes. I get weaker and weaker. In between I hang like a wilting leaf on the branch of a tree. I writhe and twist in a vain effort to find comfort. The wounds in my wrists and feet become larger and more painful than ever. The rivulets of blood that flow from my wrists snake down my ribs, and the stipe beneath and below my feet is stained by an expanding mass of semi-congealed blood.
My skin becomes cold and clammy, despite the intense mid-afternoon heat. I shudder and shake, convulsing violently at times. Repeatedly I throw my head back against the hard surface of the cross. If only I could knock myself unconscious, but I am too weak to do it properly. My head lolls left and right, my hair swishes back and forth across my chest, brushing my erect nipples. I can barely hold it up any more.
My executioners stand around the base of my cross, joking with one another and watching my dance from below. My sex is open to their view, but at this point I care little about that. I can only think about my desperate need to struggle up once again for another precious breath of air. I try, but this time I am just too weak. Halfway up my cramping legs refuse to push, I sway out well to the left and fall back especially hard, crying out as my tailbone smashes against the stipe so hard that the entire cross shakes.
View attachment 264477 At that point I lose control. I pee and defecate. The soldier directly below recoils, his face contorted in disgust with having the misfortune to be in the direct line of fire. The soldier behind him spreads him arms, belatedly yelling “look out” as his luckless comrade. The officer strides away, a look of absolute mirth on his face. He chuckles and mutters “idiots!” The crowd jumps to its feet, pointing gleefully at this new development and shouts huzzahs.
I lay my head back weakly against the stipe. Tears blur my vision. My humiliation is now complete. I lack the strength to save myself anymore. My breathing has become shallow, ragged and painful. I hang limply, my head lolls forward. Mesmerized, I watch my breasts rise and fall as I pant. I no longer twist and writhe; I no longer yell and scream. All I can do is moan and whimper. I am finished … crucified in the arena, one of many pieces of inhuman entertainment that will be staged this day for the entertainment of the idle masses.
The crowd quiets. I am no longer interesting. Their attention is diverted to something new going on at the other end of the arena, where a mass of half-naked men and women have been brought out and forced to kneel on the hot sand. I hear the roar of lions. I fall unconscious.
FINIS
She doesn’t dance. Not immediately.
She just hangs there, stunned.
For me now, she is my everything. I am entirely focussed on that one tortured woman on that one cross. I see nothing else but her bleeding body. I hear nothing else but her groans, and her laboured breathing.
She seems to be deliberately trying not to move, to deny us the satisfaction of seeing her dance. Hoping that death will take her before she has to push up and dance.
I am entranced. Sure, I’d seen women crucified before – hags and whores from the back streets. But this woman is perfect. Her only defects were those inflicted on her by her executioners. Why had they committed this….this….atrocity on a woman such as this?
I am overwhelmed by a feeling that I want to run down there and prise the nails out, take her home and nurse her back to health.
Then she gives up and has to push up the cross, giving the crowd the dance it craved. Her body trembles with the strain of it, and my brain quails with the strain of it.
Each time she does it, more blood pours out of her body – down her arms, down the cross. Great puddles of it join that of gladiators on the sand.
Suddenly her bladder and bowels give way, catching the numbskull soldiers by surprise, to the great amusement of the officer.
But I am not amused. Even the strongest could not survive that much blood loss. I weep as she finally gives up that unequal struggle.
Feeling unsettled, disgusted with myself for having called out for her torture, I finally tear my eyes away. As I turn, I meet the eyes of another man. As I look into them, I see that I am not alone in feeling the way that I do.
How insulting!
And to drive Wragg to tears! A rare feat indeed...
Yet another masterpiece!
