I lie huddled in the corner of my dungeon cell. It is dark, it is cold; the air is moist and stinks. Pale light pours though a small barred window. I am alone. The straw on the floor stabs into my naked feet. The dirty sackcloth robe scratches at my bloody, abused and bruised skin. Everything hurts and throbs with numb pain. I know I will die soon.
I have confessed under the torture. I knew that it would seal my fate, but I could not stand the pain any more. I shiver and tremble as the memories of the unspeakable things they had done to me come back: Their cold hands and fingers touching my body everywhere in search for the mark. As they did not find anything to prove my guilt, they had started to hurt me for a confession. They stab needles in my birthmarks, beat me with sticks and the whip. What followed was the torment on the rack, tearing and stretching my fragile body until I passed out from the pain. The chair with its sharp metal spikes, the screws that crushed my fingers and toe