#aren't most narratives that are based on stories you read in english class fanfics?

[doeeyeddyke]

CRACK

A whimper.

CRACK

A whimper.

CRACK

A whimper.

On and on and on.

A crack, then whimper.

Except the whimpers grow in volume and frequency, until it is no longer a periodical whimper that can be heard between the cracks of the whip but rather screams and cries. But Ivan would never know. He can’t hear.

That doesn’t stop him from enjoying this though, whipping his victims until the skin of their dorsal area is torn and raw and red and brown as new blood smears the drying old blood, and the old blood dries over scabs, and the scabs reopen with each crack of the whip, and the cycle starts all over again, repeatedly, until their back is pure crimson and they’re shuddering, near dead.

But near dead isn’t dead, and he won’t stop till death, nor is he meant to.

Few would find a career as a knouter appealing, but it was the perfect job for the likes of Ivan- tall, strong, burly, intimidating Ivan. What he supposedly lacked in intelligence he made up for with brute strength.

And what strength it was.

Some could say he had developed that strength through rigorous exercise and practices, whilst some would say it was his family blood. And then there were those who would say his strength and power was not his to have, that he had not earned it.

That his mother gave it to him.

Mother.

His mother.

If only she were here, things wouldn’t be this way.

Mama, Mama!

Ivan, go, go!

But Mama-

No, Ivan, you must go without me. I will follow after, but you must leave. Now!

Mama, no!

Ivan!

I don’t want to go without you!

And you won’t. I will be with you, I promise, but you need to go first. Now go!

As a child, Ivan did not have much and no one considered him to be worth much- no one but his parents. His father worked in a factory and his mother was a servant in the household of an aristocratic family. Due to a series of ear infections, he had gone deaf at a very young age and in turn was unable to learn how to talk. He relied on sign language to communicate and although he did go to school, he had to take separate classes with a teacher who could sign.

The teachers were very kind and sympathetic to Ivan, who was very polite and tried to be unobtrusive. What a shame that such a sweet boy such as he had to experience this, they would say amongst themselves.

The other students disliked how much the teachers favored Ivan, and at first had alienated him out of prejudice. Sneers and taunts would be exchanged in the hallway, not that he knew. But as they grew older, unheard insults and ignorance were not satisfying enough.

THUNK

“Hey, stupid!”

THUNK

“Where are you going, you big oaf?”

THUNK

“Damned teacher’s pet.”

THUNK

“лох”

THUNK

“сукин сын”

Rather than exchange unheard taunts Ivan would never know of, they decided to confront him and make sure he knew just what they thought of him. He didn’t need to hear their words to know what they were saying, what they thought of him. Stupid, dumb, crippled, pathetic. Books and boxes and shoes and whatever was in their hand at the moment was thrown at him.

Did it hurt?

Yes, of course, and not just physically.

But did he care?

A bit, but not as much as they’d like.

It was upsetting, yes, and of course it made him miserable. But it didn’t deter him from living on, from going to school, from being happy. He had his parents, he had his teachers, he had his knowledge-

But most of all, he had Zaroff.

Zaroff, son of the family for whom his mother worked.

Zaroff, his only friend.

Zaroff, the only one who would accept him.

Zaroff, who brought him comfort.

But above all-

Zaroff, who had taught him how to fight back.

Ivan-

Ivan, don’t you hate this, the way people treat us? Acting as if we can be pushed around?

Don’t you want that to change?

Don’t you want to put them in their place?

Don’t you want to show them what you’re capable of?

What you’re really worth?

Zaroff was rather an outcast as a child, like Ivan, though he didn’t have books thrown at him. Due to his family’s status, no one would dare say anything or do anything to him directly. Rather, they whisper and watch, of how his parents bought his place at the school, how he wouldn’t ever get in trouble because the headmasters wouldn’t dare go against his parents, how he’s just a rich spoiled brat who thinks he’s a prince.

It was a nuisance at most, but even so-

Ah, but what did it matter? No one dared to say anything once their friendship formed, once they learned how to make use of their strengths, literally and figuratively. One could say Zaroff was the brains and Ivan the brawn, for once their friendship bloomed Zaroff taught Ivan the way of the hunt, and how to use his strength. For the rest of their years at school, they hadn’t had to think about what everyone was saying, because no one said anything for fear Zaroff and Ivan would take action against them.

And so they were left in peace at school.

Ivan’s mother, however, was not.

Whilst they were off at school, Mama was serving the Zaroff parents. The Zaroffs quite liked her, she was nice, and as Ivan was a good friend of their son they liked him too. Ivan’s family was actually quite lucky. The rich can be cruel, but this was not the case for them, and they were grateful. However, with all good things come bad things.

Greed.

Envy.

Malice.

The likelihood of having favorable ‘masters’ to work for was extremely unlikely, and the fact that Ivan’s mother was lucky enough to get such ‘masters’ did not settle well with all the women who weren’t as lucky. They started to exchange foul words in hushed whispers behind her back, but kept such language to themselves. As much as they disliked her for her luck, her luck also raised her status to one above them.

Until the accusations.

Crops and livestock had been falling ill and dying without reason for some time, and soon the people came to the only logical solution: witchcraft. And it’s from there that things went downhill for Ivan’s mother.

Witch.

Seductress.

Demon woman.

Enchantress.

She performs spells by moonlight that manipulate minds.

She curates potions of death and tests them on our crops and livestock.

She’s a witch.

She’s a monster.

She must be eradicated.

They came for her at night.

The Zaroffs were away on a trip, visiting some other friends within the aristocracy, leaving Ivan’s mother free of work for the time being. She had planned to spend that time with Ivan, to go out with him and his father. Perhaps they would hunt or fish or go horseback riding; this break brought a chance to do so. But they never were able to take advantage of it.

They came for her at night.

Mama, Mama!

Ivan, go, go!

But Mama-

No, Ivan, you must go without me. I will follow after, but you must leave. Now!

Mama, no!

Ivan!

I don’t want to go without you!

And you won’t. I will be with you, I promise, but you need to go first. Now go!

A crowd of what seemed to be the entire village, all holding torches and pitchforks and crosses and all sorts of materials that could be used to kill or drive away a witch (or human for that matter), seemed to have assembled and marching towards Ivan’s home, soon crowding around it like a surging sea of flaming prejudice and irrationality. Papa and Mama tried to hold them off long enough for Ivan to at least escape, which he did with his mother’s insistence.

That was as long as they could hold him off.

Whilst Ivan hid on the demesne of the Zaroff estate, waiting for his parents, they were burning within their home, the mad screams of hatred and disgusting pride at their destruction echoing from the throats of those in the crowd and surrounding them as they died.

Your Mama and Papa are no longer.

Ivan noticed that his current victim didn’t seem to be reacting to his whip any longer, and paused to see if he had died.

He had.

Satisfied, he straightened up and stretched, cracking his knuckles. Another job well done. The czar should be happy.

General Zaroff should be.

And so he was, Ivan could tell, as he caught sight of the General’s reaction to the bloodied and mutilated bodies brought to their gruesome end at the hands of the knouter he had long known.