Doris

Leo found her standing under a vast, weeping willow tree at the edge of the manicured lawns, its long, leafy tendrils brushing the ground like a green waterfall. It seemed appropriate, as that's what she felt like doing. Weeping. She was leaning against the rough trunk, her body trembling, staring out at the serene lake as if it held no meaning.

He approached her slowly, not touching her, just standing beside her in silence. A moment later, Jenny joined them, her expression calm and understanding.

"It's a shock, I know," Jenny said softly, her voice devoid of its earlier clinical edge. "Seeing it for the first time. Seeing him."

"He didn't know it was me," Doris whispered, her voice hollow. "He had no idea."

"Of course not," Jenny said. "That would defeat the purpose. This was a necessary part of both of your training, Doris. You needed to understand the reality of the power you now wield. And he... he needed to feel it from a hand he couldn't identify. An anonymous, feminine authority. It's the only way."

"He's so weak," Doris choked out, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. "In just a few days... he let them do this to him."

"Is he weak, or is he simply being broken down so he can be rebuilt?" Leo asked, his voice a low, steady rumble. "The man you married was arrogant and cruel. This... this is the process of removing that man."

Something shifted in Doris. The shock began to curdle, hardening into a cold, white-hot anger. Angry at him for being so pathetic, so weak that he had let women do this to him. Angry because he had driven her to this, to this place, to this monstrous act. Angry about the affairs, the arrogance, the years of being made to feel like nothing. The pity evaporated, replaced by a righteous, searing fury.

She pushed herself away from the tree. "Take me back," she said, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. "Take me back in there."

They led her back into the red room. Arthur still hung from the cross, a sack of meat, ignorant of the fact that his wife had just delivered the first blows of his punishment. As she looked at him, her anger intensified. Her eyes scanned the walls and fell upon a rack where various implements were hung. Among them was a thin, flexible school cane.

She walked over and took it down. The smooth, varnished rattan felt cool and deadly in her hand. She walked towards the man on the cross, her steps purposeful.

The head nurse immediately stepped in her way, her arm raised to block her. "That's enough for today," she said firmly.

But Jenny raised a hand, stopping the nurse. "Let her pass," she said, her eyes fixed on Doris. "She needs to finish this."

The nurse lowered her arm, her expression unreadable. She took the cane from Doris's hand. "Still no talking," she whispered, her tone now one of instruction, not warning. "And let me show you. It's all in the wrist. A flick, not a swing. Follow through."

Doris was given a quick, brutal class in the effective use of a cane. The nurse demonstrated, the cane whistling through the air and landing with a sharp, vicious crack that made Arthur's whole body convulse. Then she handed it back to Doris.

Doris took her stance. She raised the cane. She brought it down. It was awkward at first, but then she found the rhythm, the flick of the wrist that the nurse had shown her. The cane whistled and cracked, leaving a deep, angry red line on Arthur's back. Again. And again. She lost herself in the rhythm, the fury, the power. Each crack was a year of misery. Each welt was an affair, a cruel word, a dismissive glance.

When she had finished, she was panting, her arm aching, her body slick with a sheen of sweat. Arthur was sobbing even more, a broken, pathetic sound, his back a canvas of suffering marked with fifteen deep red lines.

Doris hung the cane back on the rack, her movements calm and deliberate. She walked over to Leo, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and kissed him hard. It was not a gentle kiss; it was a claiming. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close, her thigh pressing hard against his erection. A line had been crossed. She was no longer just a spectator. She was a participant. She was a wielder of power. And she had never felt more alive.