Confessions Of A Vicomte - Entry Three · Jun 28, 04:35 AM

Dear Diary,

They are back.

I feel sore that I have not written in my diary for so long, as time flies back very quickly, but this last week is understandable. I have been imprisoned in the last week, and it would be very strange indeed to ask for you diary when you are imprisoned. No, instead, I tried to figure out how I would escape. For escape, I must. It had not been long after my enjoyable vacation on the beach with my family, when the Raoul Bashers returned for me. I know not how, nor why they are so determined to torture me thus, but I do know they are very talented at what they do, for being mostly blemish-covered adolescents.

Now I am feeling regretful for calling them names. Phillipe would be proud of my momentary spite towards my captors, but I feel much remorse, of which he would be ashamed. Phillipe never liked how ‘sensitive’ I am, as Christine put it. Phillipe called me spineless at points, normally in jest, but I have oft seen that look of shame in his eyes, when I do something particularly ‘spineless’.

Ah, that I ramble on about my dear departed brother, when I cannot even feel my toes! Yes, I have acquired my dairy while still being imprisoned, some poor soul deciding I needed something to do to pass the time while I sit in this infernal heat. Why is it hot here, you ask? Well, that is customary in a torture chamber – or so they call it. Many of them sounded quite proud of the hexagonal room with the mirrors, and the bright light that comes from the strange ‘bulb’ above me. But even I know it is a botched job, for I’ve been in here….lets see….at least twenty-four hours, and I feel as though I am merely in an uncomfortable ray of sunlight on a beachside. Why, it’s no hotter in here than a midsummer’s day!

When ‘torture chamber’ obviously did not do as was intended, I had the momentary joy of seeing the look of contempt and fury on the faces of the Raoul Bashers, their over-painted lips pursing in anger. So, they removed my shoes(or, rather, took them away. I had taken them off, and was enjoying the feel of the sand they placed in here on my feet), and hung me up by my toes. That didn’t work, because with the heat of the light in the torture chamber, I slipped out, covered in sweat. I think I broke a couple toes, though. That’s quite painful.

Since hanging me up by my toes didn’t work (I heard one girl try to explain the hows and whys of why it didn’t – something about sweaty pigs are never hung up by their hooves. I think I should be insulted), they decided to try the ankles. Yes, indeed, I am hanging upside down, the blood rushing to my head, and thinking certainly I’ll survive this ‘torture’, when my nose begins to bleed. Probably from the rush of blood to my head, combined with the dry air. I really am used to the more moist climates of Paris…

Either way, several of the girls shrieked, complaining of ‘gore of a fop’, and rushing quickly to get ‘holy water’ to ‘cleanse’ themselves with. One of them dropped the key, a bit out of arm’s distance away. I twisted around a bit, and was able to start a slow, swinging motion, and was able to grip the keys, and release my right leg. I didn’t think about what might happen, if I only had one leg in the iron chains overhead, but I soon found out, to my great pains. Several more minutes of sweat and curses, I was released, but my feet are screaming in protestation.

Despite lacking foresight to take their key with them, the Raoul Bashers remembered to close the door, which is now locked. Curses.

~Raoul de Chagny

— MaskedNicci

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