Fiction: Whipped

[Key Word: PERSPECTIVE]

Pain blurred his vision as his nails dug into the wooden pole.

Sweat streamed down his face and cold salt water burned his back. A criss-cross pattern of red covered his tan back. Shaking, he braced himself for the next crack of the whip.

It rained down mercilessly. 

His mouth forced itself open, and a scream escaped his lips. Tears changed his perspective of the punishment from “slight pain” to “burning pain”. 

It had seemed so great at first. No more swabbing of decks. No more drills. No more seasickness. 

It was a win-win situation. 

Or at least it sounded like it when the sailor first whispered in his ear. That turned out to be one of the worst night’s in his career. 

Just a couple nights later, a couple hours of planning, a hastily packed bag- and he was out of there.

He hadn’t expected them to be so fast and thorough with their search. 

Another blow rained down on his back. 

Slowly, his vision started to darken, and he started slipping to the ground. The last thing he heard before slipping unconscious, was the contempt of his fellow sailor.

“Deserter.”

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