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| The
Via Crucis of Camille - Crux 2 - Page 18 |
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Looking at Camille through the lens, the
tiny lens, was a different experience. I was
focusing on her lips, as they moved slowly,
reflecting the light, wet with a bit of blood.
There was a whip mark on her chin and another
in her cheek. Her eyes were closed. Again,
she was the image of a martyred saint.
The innocent beauty of her face, her ageless
look. She could be of any age, she could be
as young as St Eulalia in her moment of pain.
She was the image I was looking for. She was
Maricelli and her fantasy saint and Camille
all rolled into one, that's why I couldn't
let her go, not now, not ever.
How to keep her? I asked myself. How can
I retain her in my life? She wanted to be
free, she wanted to flee the coop.
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Camille
opened her eyes while I was focusing on her
face. She looked to the side and then to me.
Her expression was of one who's coing out of
the darkness, unsure of where she was.
I let the camer do its work while my mind wandered
into what to do.
While the crisis grows, I still come up with
some ideas. A vampire story, for instance, a
project easier to produce, easier than the big
film about Maricelli. I discussed it with Camille
and she likes the premise, she promises to collaborate
and yes, she wants to do it.
Maybe that will be the way to keep her around.
Keeping her busy with projects, rehearsals,
sessions. A Maquivelic plan, if the term applies.
In love and war everything and anything is allowed,
so they say.
But in principle, if a relationship is over,
it's over and all I can do is accept the obvious.
The time to stop my erratic lucubrations was
upon me, it was time to continue the torture
of Camille, the one who was now causing so much
pain. Perhaps she learned her acting lessons
well, perhaps what she was doing was giving
me enough subtext to play the role of the torturer.
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Lyvia was laying
in the middle of the piazza, under the post
with the chains on top, where she was whipped
the day her suffering began. The wooden blook
where she was whipped the day before and where
her hands were crusded was placed in front
of the post.
A growing crowd
watch the ritual.
Lyvia was raised
to her feet to hear the sentence but she had
to be held by the soldiers because her legs
were not going to support her weak body.
"For the crime
of running away from her master she will recieve
100 lashes and her feet will be crushed."
The soldiers pulled
Lyvia to the post. They released her arms
from the wood that was holding them and tied
her hands to the ends of a crossbar. She was
raised up the post, her back against it, until
her feet were hanging over the wooden block.
Lyvia's feet were
secured to the block with the same iron grills
that held her hands before. The two pieces
of wood were placed on top and under the front
of her feet, near her toes.
After her feet
were secured, she was pulled up until her
arms were fully stretched. Lyvia felt the
ropes around her wrists tightening, bringing
a new wave of pain to her broken hands.
The executioner
came foward with the bull whip, the growing
crowd was silent, a few moans came from the
young girl who was watching with tears in
her eyes, the old man holding her hand, his
eyes also in tears.
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I
was ready for the next part of this session.
I approached Camille and grabbed her hair to
force her to sit. She moaned as I pulled her
by the hair. Her almost naked body was below
me. I could see all the marks on her chest,
belly, legs. Her pubic hair sticking out from
under her garment, one feet on top of the other.
The image of the martyr was almost complete.
I forced my marty, Camille, up. |
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