He curls half asleep under too-thin blankets and tries not to remember, not to think, not to listen for the inevitable soft creak of the door, the muted sound of boots on stone. He tries not to gasp as the meager protection of his bedding is stripped away, not to cry as hands position him, dragging him to reluctant wakefulness.
Fingers press inside him; he wants to squirm and whimper, but already he's learned to bite down on his own flesh to hold himself silent. Then the fingers are gone and he's being impaled, torn open, and he can hold back the sounds but not the tears as each thrust burns through him like a brand.
An eternity later, it's done; he curls on his side again and the blankets are pulled back over him, tucked around him with a perverse gentleness.
Tomorrow, life at the abbey will go on as it always does. He'll have lessons, and force his aching body through hours of work with sword and bow; his bruises will be overlooked, and nobody will know about his bloodied sheets.
The door creaks and closes, and he tries not to remember, not to think, not to feel.
Written for 30 Tortures. Session #12 - dirty little secret
