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rosesareviolentlyread · 4 years

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Prelude: These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

First post on whump and of course I decide to take my truly darkest plot and use it. I’m not sure where this is on the dark scale for this community, but I mean I guess beware? CW: Self-harm, possibly implied suicide attempt, Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy, box boy setting, pet whump setting, modern slavery, domestic abuse, parental abuse, self-whump, caretaker as whumper

Thanks to @ashintheairlikesnow for both inspiring me and also letting me use Karen Renford, who may make an appearance in another piece with Ward about his particular taste in pets. “Amen, amen. But come what sorrow can,

It cannot countervail the exchange of joy

That one short minute gives me in her sight.

Do thou but close our hands with holy words,

Then love-devouring death do what he dare;

It is enough I may but -”

DING-DING-DING-DONG….DONG-DING-DING-DONG

The nine-chimed tune interrupts the man’s gravely reading of Shakespeare, causing him to blink, squinting in the fading light of the fireplace at the old grandfather clock that has moved on to loud BONGS to state the late hour.

Pulling off his glasses, the old man rubs at an eye “Oh my, is it already ten? Well, it’s best off to bed for both of us. We can pick up tomorrow”

In the opposite plush leather armchair, a blonde girl blinks herself awake. Only a round, soft face is visible beneath a warm-knit blanket that cocoons her against the chair like a fly in a spider’s web.

“But Mr. Richard we were ju-u-u-st getting to the good part” Though she pouts her lip, tilting her head slightly with wide eyes to get her way, a yawn betrays her own exhaustion.

“We can continue tomorrow, Juliet. I know you’ve memorized it already anyways. Now why don’t you run along to bed, pet? I’ve had Anita put on the heavy down comforter, we don’t want you catching another cold. I’ll be up in a minute” The man’s blue eyes drift fondly to the girl, snuggled close by the fire.

Outside the window, soft snowfall signaled the coming of winter for his mountain home. He’d originally intended for them to seek warmer weather, perhaps in the villa in Italy. It was better for Juliet’s health, but seeing the girl enjoy winter was something they’d been unable to do for a while. With luck, she’d stay healthy enough they could enjoy it for a little longer.

“Yes, Mr. Richard. Goodnight” With a tired smile, she wraps the overly large blanket around herself like a cloak, looking all the part a child playing dress-up. Warm lips press to the top of his white-haired head, small arms gently embracing him as well as they could from behind the large chair. With practiced ease, he rubs a warm circle on the back of one slender hand, eliciting a slight purr from the girl. And then she was gone, drifting through the house in her makeshift white cloak like a ghost.

Richard Ward sat for a minute enjoying the fire. He was a lucky man. To have such a wonderful pet, who, while frail, enjoyed every moment of his presence. Who was devoted to every caring touch. The hours of reading to her in fevered delirium, to wheeling her in the garden when her legs refused to work, to petting her head softly when pain made sleep impossible.

Richard Ward had learned to cherish the bad and the good in life. In business he’d learned to find opportunity in every situation. Unfortunately, it took the death of his own son for him to take that moment into his personal life. But now, with Juliet, he cherished the times in health as well as sickness.

Now, he lived for every moment, every pain and pleasure, intertwined. With the fortune he’d amassed he could do right by his Juliet, by the world. He’d take care of Juliet forever, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow as the Bard said.

But first, he had to wait for tomorrow, and Richard Ward didn’t think five more minutes by the fire could hurt its pace.

So he closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of fire, happiness, and family, content with his life.

And woke no more.

----

In the middle of the night, some phantom pain bolts Juliet upright, covered in her own sweat. The blood of her heart pounds hot in her ears. Nightmares of fear and pain were common in her life, but so was their instant remedy: Mr. Richard.

So wrapped in the same blanket as earlier, she pads down the hall, letting the warm glow of lights made to look like flickering candles illuminate her way.

“M-mr. Richard?” Her eyes feel wet with automatic tears, lip and voice trembling with an unpracticed, inherent ease. Enough to show fear, but not enough to look ugly. She knew she looked ugly when she cried.

The old oak door to his room creaks open, revealing the same soft flickering light by an empty four-poster bed. With a sigh, fear almost forgotten, she heads for the grand stairs, back to the drawing room. Her silly old man had probably fallen asleep in his chair again. But that was alright.

Maybe if she was good, if she made up a convincing nightmare, he’d keep reading to her until she fell asleep. Would rub the sore spots she could never tell if were real or imagined any more. The mere thought brought a smile to her face, a quick pace to her light steps.

But when she entered the room, she found no warmth. The fire had died out into crumbling embers, letting a chill in through the chimney. Yet even its breeze that threatened to freeze her bones didn’t seem to be able to move the suffocating stillness. She felt it creep into her veins, wrong, as she fearfully walked over to Mr. Richard, sat still in the chair facing the only dying light.

But her eyes softened to see his sleeping face, book open in his lap with eyeglasses set in the spine. The moonlight highlighted his pale, wrinkled face, but it was one she loved. One that took care of her, no matter how much trouble she was.

Gently she placed a kiss to his forehead to wake him, already imagining his warm touch on her aching limbs-

Only to be met with the same ice in her veins. With the same stillness that threatened to stop her chest.

“M-Mr. Richard?” She wobbled out, voice honest, not practiced. Truly imperfect, instead of perfectedly so.

But his body didn’t move.

So she touched his shoulder. And then grabbed it. And then shook it.

But his body didn’t move.

Juliet felt her breath come in small gasps, like when she was sick. But she wasn’t sick, was she? Was this a bad dream? No. Because Mr. Richard woke her from bad dreams but now he wouldn’t wake up.

No, she just couldn’t wake him, because everything was fine. When everything was fine, Mr. Richard was sad, a kind of slow sad where the world felt too perfectly wrong, too boring. So she just had to make it wrong to make everything perfect again.

So Juliet did what she’d been trained to do. She reached for the book, for the crisp page, and quickly slid her finger along it until sharp pain and blood dripped warmly from the edge.

A whimper from her throat, and she held the wrist as more and more blood, impossibly warm from how cold she felt ran almost black in the barely light down her wrist.

“Mr. Richard, I cut myself, c-can you kiss it better?” Honey voiced, thick, almost saccharine but something felt wrong. Everything felt wrong, her voice couldn’t be right.

But his body didn’t move.

So she pressed the bloodied finger to his lips, even as touching them threatened a shiver through her body.

“See Mr. Richard? It hurts”

But his body didn’t move.

With a whimper, she tried to think. Why wasn’t it working? He always came when she was hurt.

But sometimes, if it wasn’t enough, he didn’t come.

Quickly, Juliet crossed to the small table for Mr. Richard’s drinks, grabbing the small knife he used to make the pretty orange twists she liked in hers.

Back in front of it, in front of the still closed eyelids, she slid the knife along her palm, flinching with practice at too familiar pain. Making the high, pained sound, that one she never knew if was real or not anymore.

His body didn��t move.

Juliet felt tears, real tears prick at her eyes. Why wasn’t it good enough? Why wouldn’t he help her?

She did everything right so he’d help her, so she’d get the caring touches. Like they’d taught her at the Facility. When she was sick in winter, she’d walk outside at night without clothes to stay sick.

She’d rub dirt in wounds. She’d trip down stairs, she’d slam her hand in doors, she’d burn herself on the oven.

And when Mr. Richard was bored with what she could try, he often helped her. Because sometimes he’d give her medicine and she’d wake up and couldn’t move her legs for days. Sometimes she’d feel sick to her stomach from a drink he’d give her, until she puked for hours.

That’s it. He just wanted her to try harder. To be a good girl and go back to doing it all herself. She had to earn his caring touch. And Juliet could do that.

Determined, she climbed the two-story staircase in the entrance hall, heart thumping. This would work, and Mr. Richard would wake up, and he’d take care of her. He’d hand feed her soup again, and gently brush her hair. He’d read her Shakespeare until she fell asleep, and bring treats from his business partners who wished her a speedy recovery. Everything would be fine.

So why was she crying?

With tears in her eyes, Juliet climbed the barrister, staring down at the black marble floor far below, almost swallowed in darkness. The blanket fell to the floor, a pile like pale bones in a pit.

She pushed off, and her world exploded into painful darkness as the scream was ripped from her throat.

‘Anita’ wasn’t sure how much of this she could take. Richard Ward was on the board of WRU, and she was so, so, so close to figuring out where the sick old man kept some of the emails, the dealings, the proof of WRU’s real workings. With his tech empire, they suspected Ward helped them target potential ‘candidates’. Helped them recruit and hire handlers with the appropriate mentality off the dark web. It was enough potential dirt for them to make real progress in the Pet-Lib movement. If only she could figure out where he kept it.

And it’d been an easy enough job. A boring one, honestly, as she cleaned the house under the flimsy false identity of an illegal immigrant the man had barely bothered to check. She even got enough money to live on and give a fat check to the safe houses from it, damn rich bastard.

But she was ready to tell them, tell Tara, she couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t watch this fucker and his pet, whatever he’d made the poor girl into.

At first, she’d thought it was true, that he’d just gotten some pet with a lot of health issues.

But then she’d seen the girl purposefully trip, break fingers, grab a burning hot plate straight from the oven. Seen her do those things without wincing and then let the tears fall so perfectly. Fall into his touch, the touch and care that made the old man beam.

She’d even found the goddamn name for it. Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. Pleasure at taking care of someone so much that you cause them pain, make them to get sick, just to make them better yourself.

Richard Ward ordered a pet that would hurt itself for his touch, for his care. They’d turned a girl into some sick pain robot, and Mia didn’t even want to think how. She could barely watch now, wondering how he manufactured the illness and pain Juliet took with thankful smile, for the chance that he’d be kind.

Figures there’d be someone somehow as fucked up as Karen Renford in WRU.

So yeah, Mia was ready to quit being ‘Anita’, because even if she knew what she was doing could help kids from not becoming like Juliet, she wasn’t sure how much she could take watching.

It was with this thought that Mia started and ended each day, determined to quit the day after tomorrow if she couldn’t find the files.

Unlocking the door, Mia felt the similar tug of dread, ran through the same conversation Tara had taught her to help her get through when these undercover missions were hard. When she couldn’t just grab a pet and run like she wanted.

But something felt...off. ‘Anita’ was always first to arrive, to open the obscene curtains, to transform the vintage fashioned home from night to day. She was used to the entrance being cold, the fires being out. Weird guy also had a fetish for the life of antiquity, but Anita had gotten used to it. But today, the coldness seemed to seep into her bones.

Probably should’ve just brought another sweater she thought as she walked through the service entrance, opening curtains as she went.

Kitchen, dining room, tea room, sitting room. It was actually pretty satisfying to watch the light suddenly dance in, dim streaks through trees in the early morning.

Or at least it was until she saw it fall on the body of Richard Ward, causing her to jump back, nearly knocking over probably worth more than she’d make in her entire life.

“Oh, Mr. Ward! I didn’t see you there.” Her heart threatened to flutter out of her chest, so much so that she’d almost forgotten her ‘accent’. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.

But there was no response.

Cautiously, Mia walked over, touching the old man’s shoulder to gently wake him.

It was stiff, cold. Dead.

The fucker was dead. Pale as a ghost except for the tiny smear of dried blood on his face.

The same dried, dark brown blood that was dripped over his body, onto the book, onto the carpet, on the table holding the bar cart’s knife coated in the same. Dried blood.

Quietly, Mia picked up the knife, the only weapon in reach. Nothing else was out of place, and as much as she wished it was, the blood didn’t seem to be Ward’s.

She tiptoed out of the room, following the dripped and dried bloody path into the entrance way. By the ridiculously ostentatious staircase, under the overhang, was a small...lump. Squinting her eyes in the dim entrance way, Mia could make out what looked like an slender arm, a head of blonde-

f u c k, fuck fuckFuckFUCK

The hardest thing about this job had been keeping her potty mouth to herself and playing the part of some Downton Abbey-esque servant in keeping with the man’s antiquated tastes. But upon seeing the small body, twisted at odd angles beneath the second floor overhang, her gut told her this job deserved every version of fuck imaginable.

Scrambling over to the small girl Mia knelt down, hands shaking as she felt around the throat for a pulse that wasn’t the one banging in her ears. It took a minute of pressing, of forcing herself to breathe dammit before she found it, weak, but definitely there.

Gently, so gently so as to not jostle her neck or head, Mia stroked a hand over Juliet’s brow, the way she’d seen Ward do countless times when the girl was sick. Mia tried to stop trembling, to stop thinking about how maybe if she’d told Tara about Ward, about his taste in pets, they would’ve focused on rescuing Juliet instead.

If Mia hadn’t been determined to hide the real Ward so they could have their cake and eat it too.

“C’mon baby girl, wake up for me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, fuck, please wake up” The words fell, soft and pleading from her lips.

Hazy blue-grey eyes blinked up at her, slow, glassy with pain. The body attempted to shift, only to whimper with pain, real pain. Not the fake whimper Mia had learned, but something deep and animalistic in her throat that reminded Mia more of a street dog than a person.

“There you are. It’s ok, you’re ok” She tried to keep her voice calm, gentle. To not let her hand shake as she thanked whatever god there was in this fucked up world that the girl hadn’t lost too much blood, hadn’t completely cracked her head open, even if her legs looked like snapped twigs.

After a few moments of mumbled words met by calm shushing noises from Mia, Juliet finally strangled out “‘Nita, why din’t Mr. Richard wake up?”

Mia paused, upon hearing the slurred, pained words. This wasn’t an accident. Juliet had done this to wake him up. Because the man had a second-sense for any pain in his vicinity. Even if he was a demon, not even the call of his previous pet’s pain was enough to bring his sadistic ass back from hell. Thank God.

A whimper, and Mia was immediately pulled back from her thoughts, petting the girl’s head. Because it didn’t matter where that sick fuck was. He was dead, Mia hadn’t found out where he kept his things, and she had only a few hours before other servants got here. Only a few hours to do something right on this mission.

“Shh, it’s ok. I’m gonna get you help ok? You’re gonna be ok”

Reaching into her uniform, Mia groped for the burner phone constantly pressed against her chest. At least bras were useful for hiding things, as much as she hated them. She breathed through her nose, steadying her breath and hoping questions could wait as she pressed the number.

“Tara? Yeah, I need an evac for me and a pet at Ward’s yesterday.”

Because this was Mia’s fault, because she waited for tomorrow’s petty pace to paint her a yesterday lighted fool.

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thebrokenblackman · 4 years

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A Critical Analysis of THE HOLY KAABAA by Hakeem Ture

Man exists in a duality of that which we can explain and that which we cannot. Life for all seems to be a process that defines the middle. Somewhere in between the physical and the metaphysical. The relationship between the two works both in compliment and necessity. A symbol of this ancient truth was built by a father and his son. Two master mathematicians, cosmologist, and carpenters whose names were Ibrahim and Ismail. The Holy KaaBaa Is known as the “House of God” by followers of the Prophet Muhammad (SAWS)

Believed to be built around 2,000 B.C. in collaboration with The Creator and the holy angels this meticulous structure serves a linkage between people of all demographics as they unite in worship of the one true God. This “house” of worship represents a dichotomy of body and discipline that its builders and re-builders have become familiar with due to practices and sciences of afrikan people. The Etymology of the word house derives directly from the Old English hus meaning “dwelling”. It is obvious to the human eye that God can not be housed by a physical structure nor dwell in one. So we must ask ourselves how can this be the house of God?

What is God? Who Is God? At this point in scientific discovery we must conclude for the sake of camaraderie that God is the origin particle of life, an atom. We can not break matter down any further than an atom and its makings. Spiritual people believe that God is in Everything and IS everything. For this truth to be true it must stand the test of science. The only uniting factor of everything in this universe is an atom. When looking at the Holy Kaaba during pilgrimage a.k.a Hajj, I can not bypass its resemblance to atomic structure. The KaaBaa itself serves as both the physical and metaphysical nucleus. The word, Kaabaa, in Arabic translates as “cube”. When forming the nucleus protons and neutrons are bonded by strong nuclear force in the shape of a cube. There are two rings of circumambulation established around the KaaBaa. There are also two planes of rotation around the nucleus of an atom. The first plane can only hold 2 electrons and the second plane can take 8. Any more electrons makes the atom combustible. God and his universal laws are constants. Constants are necessary for the experience we know as life, therefore he can not be combustible.

Mirroring this truth stands an ancient building of granite that measures 43 ft. high x 42 ft. wide. Like an atom it has been taken away from and added to, but it has not been destroyed. The Granite is black symbolizing the black “skin” or “shell” of God that we know as dark matter. As taught by our afrikan ancestors, “As is above so is below '',so therefore the skin of God on earth is black as well. The Kaabaa serves as a reminder of both, because God is in the physical and metaphysical world. Melanin is found to give both space and people its color. Melanin is described by Healthline.com as “a skin pigment. It occurs in both humans and animals, and is what makes hair, skin, and eyes appear darker.” Research has found that melanin helps protect the skin from UV rays. Increasing melanin may also help block processi in the body that lead to skin cancer. The gold mortar represents strong nuclear force within the nucleus holding it together and emanating light.

“And when Moses came to Our appointed tryst and his Lord had spoken unto him, he said: My Lord! Show me (Thy Self), that I may gaze upon Thee. Thy Lord said: Thou wilt not see Me, but gaze upon the mountain! If it stand still in its place, then thou wilt see Me. And when his Lord revealed (His) glory to the mountain He sent it crashing down. And Moses fell down senseless. And when he woke he said: Glory unto Thee! I turn unto Thee repentant, and I am the first of (true) believers.” According to the Holy Quran (7:143) God had to reveal himself. In order to reveal something it must first be hidden. God’s self was hidden behind the dark matter of space. Ibrahim and Ismail understood this and perfectedly communicated it through symbology. Today, a black & gold shroud called the kiswah covers the Kaabaa to protect it from weather conditions, yet it represents the same idea. On it the words “Oh Allah, There is no God but Allah, Mohammed is the Messenger of Allah. The Most Loving, the Benefactor. Glory be to Allah and Praise be to Allah and Glory is to Allah the Great” are embroidered, which serves as a reminder that the KaaBaa represents God and that there is no god but the one represented by the KaaBaa.

Looking at the Kaabaa itself is wondrous but examining its functions and interactions within humanity is an amazing feat in itself. To do so we must examine the ethnicity of the people who created The Kaaba. The original arabs were an indegineous African people and we can trace this from the relation of the Arabic and Bantu languages. We can also use what is known of their migration. Maps that depict the world prior to the colonization of Afrika by Western powers prove that what is today known widely as the “Middle East'' does not exist and was during the time of Prophet Muhummad(Saws) a settlement of Nubian people. The name that Ibrahaim and his progeny chose was a dichotomy of both the physical and the metaphysical. The Kaa and Baa are two of the seven souls that are said to be encompassed by the human being ,as taught in Gerald Massey’s The Seven Souls of Man and Their Culmination in Christ . The Kaa is the body and the Baa is the soul of breath. In order for the metaphysical God to enact his existence the physical had to be created. Through this name we are reminded that we must center our efforts around the Kaa and the Baa to be closest to God.

Muslims Circumambulate the masterful work of art known as the KaaBaa seven times in total submission and prayer to God. From a bird's eye view the spiritual practitioners resemble the planets orbiting around the sun and our solar system orbiting in the milky way. Whether, this and everything else forementioned is by chance or by grand design is the intrigue that keeps scholars and scientist visiting this ancient house of God and will for years to come.

#islam #sufism #amodou bamba #maliki school #nationofislam #black history #african art #african history #physics #quantum physics

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