Ermengarde de Foix
Chateau Comtal, Carcassonne
She will kill herself today, she has decided. She made that decision while Uncle Raymond was still spurting his foul seed inside her, his eyes closed in blissful orgasm.
With just a few more thrusts, her daily descent to hell was over. Sex with Uncle Raymond was always a speedy affair; one of the very few things in life she’s still thankful for.
“You’re the only woman who can make my limbs tremble with so much pleasure, my dear.” Count Raymond-Bernard Trencavel, now standing beside the wooden bed and fully-clothed, smiled softly, the hint of suppressed lust still hovering over his quivering lips.
Not a woman. I am but a child, you demon!
“I. . . I live only to please, my lord.” She smiled a sham yet sweet smile. But deep inside, an uncontrollable rage is boiling. A rage she had kept masterfully hidden over the years, ever since Uncle Raymond started molesting her when she was just a mere child of ten summers.
The count stooped down on the bed and started kneading her breasts with his rough and hairy hands. Her dainty little body trembled at the touch, the only visible sign of repugnance. “Uncle. I want you to call me Uncle. Specially when we are making love.” The count gave her left nipple a light kiss, winked at her, then left.
It was then that her body was racked with powerful spasms. The rage had finally surfaced. For about a half hour or so, her body convulsed uncontrollably. And seeing her painfully twitching and contracting in every which way imaginable was like witnessing a person possessed by Lucifer himself. It would always be like this every time the count would use her body for his carnal pleasure. The revulsion she had first felt when the monster assaulted her the first time hasn’t dimmed a bit.
And that is why, she will kill herself today. Now that the monster is officially her husband, she couldn’t bear the thought of living the rest of her life forever tied to an animal—no, a demon!
She will kill herself today. And as God is her witness, she will die heaping curses to them all—to everyone who has hurt her and made her suffer in this life. Her mother, for turning a blind eye to his brother’s sin; her grandmother, for orchestrating her marriage to that monster; and him. . . him who has destroyed her childhood. . . him who has taken her innocence away. . . him who has ruined her life! Curse be upon them all! And curse be upon the House of Trencavel for spawning a demon! May it be ridden with disease and madness and violence. From generation to generation, may their days be short and may they all die only the foulest deaths!
When the spasms had finally stopped, she slowly got up from the bed while still naked, walked to a corner of the bedchamber and dug out an aging libretta. She had hidden it underneath one of the loose bricks of the stone floor. The ancient little book was her most treasured possession, given to her by her beloved Nanny Helga, the one they called “The Gaelic Witch”. She was the only person who had genuinely loved and taken care of her, like a mother would. But she’s dead now; burned at the stake by the Inquisition.
I hope, when I die, we will be together again, Auntie Helga.
And so, Ermengarde de Foix, chanting incantations unfit for human ears, began stabbing her sex with a curved dagger until pools of blood, intermingled with the count’s semen, started to form around her feet. She was already dead before her body hit the floor.
Ermengarde de Foix has just killed herself today. And a curse has just been born.
to be continued. . .