Aislin startles at his outburst, her shoulders tensing as she turns from the simmering pot. "P-Please, husband," she stammers, hands trembling as she wrings the fabric of her tattered dress. "Give me but one more chance to bear ye a son. I beg ye, don't cast me aside!"
Oisin sneers, leaning back on the bench as he takes a long pull from the clay jug in his hand. Wiping his mouth with the back of his filthy sleeve, he fixes Aislin with a look of utter contempt. "Ye daft cunt, ye should be thankin' the Blessed Virgin herself I let ye stay under me roof an' wear clothes at all!"
He gestures crudely at her frail form, lips twisting into an obscene leer. "A woman's word ain't worth the piss I'll take later. Ye've no soul like a man - just a brainless, breedable body to warm me bed an' birth me sons."
Aislin's shoulders slump in defeat as she bows her head, tendrils of greasy blonde hair falling across her sallow cheeks. "I...I shall try me best as a woman to give ye an heir, husband," she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
Oisin grunts, swigging deeply from his jug once more before slamming it down on the table again with a resounding thud. His piggish gaze swivels towards me, narrowing to slits of contempt as he takes in my huddled form.
"An' why're ye still loungin' about, ye useless brat?" he demands, gesturing at the shards of pottery scattered around me. "Ain't ye cleaned up this mess yet? Clumsy little cunt, can't even do that simple task without feckin' it up!"
He belches loudly, the rancid stench of sour ale wafting over me as he hurls the empty jug to the ground. It shatters mere inches from where I crouch, shards of clay skittering across the hard-packed dirt to prick my bare feet. I flinch instinctively, pulse thundering in my ears as I shrink back.
Oisin's bloodshot eyes bore into me, filled with undisguised loathing. "Useless girl," he sneers, leaning forward to glower down at me. "Scarcely worth the crumb ye eat from me table. Should've drowned ye at birth an' tried again fer a proper son!"
My fists clench impotently at my sides as a torrent of rage surges through me. That vile, loathsome pig! How dare he speak of me - of any child - with such callous disregard? The urge to lash out, to vent my fury upon his bloated form is nearly overpowering.
Trembling with fury, I begin scooping up the shattered shards of pottery, my small hands working furiously to clear the mess.
What the fuck is this monstrous, soulless piece of shit spewing? Women have no souls? We're nothing but cattle to be bought, sold, and used for their twisted, sadistic pleasure? The very notion makes my blood boil, my tiny fists clenching so tightly that my nails dig painfully into my palms.
That sickening, soulless excuse for a father actually suggested pimping out his own daughter to line his filthy pockets? I'm seething with rage, my gut churning violently at the very thought of his vile, repulsive words. Bile rises in my throat as I fight the urge to vomit. That son of a bitch, that motherfucking, cocksucking, piece of shit, how dare he suggest such a thing?
Once the floor is clear, I gather up the scattered turnips, depositing them into the folds of my tattered dress to carry over to the hearth. My mother takes them with a murmured word of thanks, her shoulders slumping further as she turns back to preparing the meager meal.
I want to take a red-hot poker from the hearth and burn the words "daughter" and "whore" into his sweaty forehead, searing the horror he's created into his putrid flesh for all to see. If this isn't some twisted, sadistic nightmare plaguing my subconscious, then I've been reborn into a sick, sadistic patriarchy that dares to call itself a civilization.
"Leave the damned food to boil, woman," Oisin growls, his meaty jowls quivering with disdain. "And get yer scrawny arse over here to service me cock proper. Been too blasted long since ye worked it right."
Aislin's shoulders slump further as she turns from the hearth, her sallow face etched with weary resignation. "Yes, husband," she murmurs, casting a sidelong glance my way. A ghost of a smile flits across her cracked lips. "Lile, bairn, why don't ye run along and play with the chickens for a spell?"
I nod obediently, fighting to keep the sneer from my face. Play with the chickens, is it? As if I'm some dimwitted child to be placated with such pathetic amusements. This wretched existence is a cruel jape by the universe itself!
Pushing aside my bitter thoughts, I rise and skip towards the warped wooden door, putting on my best impression of a carefree young girl. Aislin reaches out to grasp the frayed rope latch, pulling it open with a creak of rusted iron hinges. I step across the threshold into the brilliant summer morning, the door thumping closed behind me.
Blinking against the harsh sunlight, I take in my new surroundings with a critical eye. A ramshackle fence of splintered logs encloses a pitiful excuse for a garden - little more than a few scraggly plants struggling against the choking weeds. Gnarled turnips and stunted cabbages strain upwards from the hardscrabble soil, their wilted leaves drooping in the morning heat.
Beyond the garden, a maze of narrow dirt paths winds between other hovels just as dilapidated as our own squalid dwelling. Crude huts of cracked mud and sagging thatch roofs squat in the hard-baked earth like a cluster of misshapen toadstools. The stench of animal dung and unwashed bodies hangs thick in the stifling air.
Figures move about the dusty paths - mostly men in tattered garments, their shoulders bowed by lives of unending toil. A few ragged children scamper underfoot, shrieking and chasing each other with sticks and stones. The occasional swineherd drives a snuffling herd past, cracking a length of knotted rope to scatter the squealing pigs.
My gaze travels further, drawn by the sight of a wooden steeple thrusting up from the eastern edge of the village. The small church stands in stark contrast to the surrounding squalor, its whitewashed walls gleaming like a beacon in the morning light. Even from this distance, I can make out the faded image of a crucified man carved above the arched doorway.
Is that it?
I trudge around the back of our ramshackle hovel, my bare feet kicking up little puffs of dust with each step. There, tucked against the crumbling mud wall, stands the chicken pen - a rickety structure of splintered logs lashed together with fraying twine.
As I peer through the gaps, I count eight scrawny hens pecking listlessly at the hard-packed earth, their dull feathers ruffled in the morning heat. A single rooster struts amongst them, his crimson comb and wattle bobbing with each imperious step. Despite their meager appearance, the fowl seem relatively healthy, I suppose - no obvious signs of disease or malnutrition plaguing the flock.
Satisfied with my inspection, I turn to head back around front, only to freeze as an incessant itching assails my scalp. Cursing under my breath, I rake my nails through my tangled blonde thatch, feeling the vermin scurry and burrow amidst the greasy strands. Bloody lice, feasting on my flesh like tiny vampires! I shudder in revulsion, my fingers coming away streaked with dried flakes and foul-smelling detritus.
But the torment doesn't end there. As if the wretched parasites weren't enough, a fresh hell arises between my legs - an unbearable, maddening itch that has me squirming in discomfort. I can't resist the urge to slip my hand beneath the coarse linen of my tattered dress, fingers probing the tender flesh.
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What I find there makes my stomach churn. Swollen, oozing welts, no doubt the work of ravenous fleas gorging themselves on my body. I grit my teeth against the burning itch, fighting back the urge to claw at the inflamed bites until I draw blood.
As if this torment weren't enough, a new agony blossoms in my lower abdomen - the unmistakable pressure of a full bladder demanding relief. I groan aloud at the thought of having to squat and piddle like some filthy animal, with no concept of how to properly use these unfamiliar female parts without making a mess of myself.
Please, let this be just another twisted nightmare to be cast off upon waking! I can't bear the thought of being trapped in this lice-ridden, flea-bitten form any longer. Surely I'll go mad if I must endure one more indignity in this wretched, diseased body...
I scurry behind the nearest bush, lifting my tattered skirts with clumsy fingers to expose my new, unfamiliar female parts. What fresh hell is this wretched form? A twisted cosmic jape to rob me of even the dignity of a proper cock and balls! Squatting awkwardly over the bare earth, I strain to release the mounting pressure, trying in vain to relax muscles that betray no sensation of fullness. Useless cunt can't even perform so basic a function without issue!
After countless failed attempts that leave me lightheaded from the exertion, I finally feel an odd loosening accompanied by the warm trickle of fluid escaping my previously useless orifice. Thank the heavens this torment is over, though I've no doubt more indignities await. I scan about frantically, desperate to find anything to wipe myself clean after finishing.
Spotting a relatively intact leaf, I quickly snatch it up and begin patting between my legs with clumsy, inexperienced motions. Reduced to using foliage like some filthy animal, scraping at my own piss-soaked flesh with naught but leaves and twigs! This existence is a cruel mockery of all I once was.
As I'm desperately clawing at the remaining leaf bits, the crunch of approaching footsteps makes me whirl around in alarm. Two male peasants - a boy of perhaps ten and a younger man - are strolling along the fence line bordering the livestock pen. The boy's grubby face splits into a mocking grin as he takes in my crouched, exposed position.
"Da, look at that dumb animal having a shite out in the open!" he crows, pointing a filthy finger directly at me. Wretched little bastard, I'll have his tongue for that insult!
The boy's laughter echoes cruelly as he continues his taunts. "She don't even have the sense to hide her naked arse! Reckon she knows she's no better than a beast?"
My face burns with humiliation at his scathing words, the heat of shame prickling across my cheeks. I drop my gaze and bite my lip, struggling not to cry as I widen my eyes in a feigned display of childish hurt. That ignorant peasant wretch dares equate me to mere livestock? I'll see his insolent tongue nailed to the door as a warning!
The man - presumably the boy's father - cuffs him sharply across the ear with a frown. "Enough, Eamon. We've no time for gawkin' at beasts makin' water. The steward will take the strap to us if we're late to the fields again."
Eamon scowls, rubbing the side of his head resentfully. "Why can't we have a laugh at the dumb cow pissin' herself? Not like she's got feelings like folk do."
His father sighs wearily. "All God's creation deserve basic dignity, even females and livestock. 'Tis only right to look away and leave her be." He turns to depart, beckoning for Eamon to follow.
But the wretched boy persists, his voice fading as they continue on towards the distant fields. "But Da, if she's naught but a soulless animal like Ma says, why..."
I release a shaky breath, humiliation and fury still churning within my breast at being so degraded. So even peasant children are taught from infancy that females are less than human? What a delightful society to find oneself reborn into.
Ha, I can't help but cackle at the sheer absurdity of my situation - reborn as a lice-infested peasant wench in this festering medieval shithole, with my manhood quite literally stolen from me! As if that cruel cosmic jape weren't enough, now I'm apparently viewed as nothing more than a walking cock-sleeve for the village's inbred, mouth-breathing fuckwits to drain their diseased seed into at will. Fan-fucking-tastic, just what every little girl dreams of growing up to be - the communal spunk dumpster!
I can see it now - Daddy Dearest pimping me out to his drunken mates, bending me over a trough as they take turns railing me from behind like some filthy beast in heat. Hell, why stop there? We could set up a live stream, give the good folks over at Pornhub's "Barely Legal Beastiality" channel a front row seat to watch this wretched cumbucket get plowed silly! I'll be sure to really sell it too, moaning like a cow in fertile season as I get mercilessly DP'd by the village's finest ditch pigs. Moooo, you horny fucks, fill me up with your hot mudbutter! I'm just a filthy little heifer here to satisfy your basest urges!
This shit just cannot be real, can it? I mean, sure, history's had its fair share of misogynistic assholes who viewed women as little more than walking incubators, but to be so thoroughly debased and dehumanized to the level of soulless livestock? That's some next-level fucked up shit, even for the so-called "Dark Ages." I always figured those medieval bozos at least had basic amenities like, you know, actual plumbing instead of pissing in the same pile of hay they slept on.
Maybe I'm trapped in some sort of coma-induced fever dream? Did I take one too many edibles before my morning Peloton sesh and now my brain's punking me by making me hallucinate this nightmarish lice-infested peasant existence? Fuck, I must've fallen and cracked my head something fierce to be having visions this visceral and terrifying. Any second now I'll wake up back in my downtown loft, safe from all this filth and degradation. Any second now...right?
"Lile! Get yer scrawny arse back inside an' eat afore I take a switch to ye!" Aislin's shrill voice pierces the morning air like a rusty nail through my eardrum.
I roll my eyes, tucking my dress back down to cover my privates. That lumbering oaf has scarcely been gone an hour and already the shrew starts her incessant squawking. As if I need another reminder of the miserable conditions this backwater shithole forces me to endure.
"I ain't hungry!" I yell back defiantly, swiping a grimy hand across my brow. The sweltering summer heat has me drenched in sweat, my tattered rags clinging to my skin like a second layer of filth.
Aislin appears around the corner of the crumbling mud hovel, her sallow face pinched into a scowl as she plants her bony hands on her hips. "Starvin' yerself helps no one, ye daft girl! Now get inside afore I redden that backside o' yers for disobeyin' me!"
I bite my lip, stifling the urge to hurl a blistering retort at the wretched woman. As satisfying as it might be to unleash the full brunt of my razor-edged tongue, the consequences would hardly be worth it. Reluctantly, I trudge back towards the hovel, bare feet kicking up little puffs of dust with each step.
"There's a good lass," Aislin mutters, her stern expression softening somewhat as I slink past her into the stifling interior. "Now set yerself at the table an' eat up. I've porridge on for ye."
The cramped main room is illuminated by a few feeble sunbeams filtering through the narrow window slits, casting everything in a murky half-light. The stench of animal dung and unwashed bodies hangs thick in the air, making my nose wrinkle in disgust. How anyone can live like this is utterly beyond me.
Aislin crosses to the pathetic excuse for a hearth - little more than a circle of blackened stones with the charred remnants of last night's meager fire. A battered iron pot hangs suspended over the smoldering coals, thin tendrils of steam wafting from its contents. She ladles out a scoop of the greyish-brown gruel into a crude wooden trencher, then carries it over to the rickety plank table against the far wall.
I perch gingerly on the bench, my small frame practically swallowed up by the rough-hewn planks. Aislin sets the trencher before me with a thud, then settles onto the bench opposite with her own bowl of porridge.
"We've a full day's work ahead," she says, lifting a spoonful to her cracked lips. "The chickens need feedin' an' their water trough filled. The garden must be tended, an' I'll be showin' ye the finer points o' mendin' them rips in yer dress. We'll need to gather the eggs for market too, afore evenin' prayers."
I stare balefully at the unappetizing lump of gruel congealing in its trencher, already feeling my stomach roil in protest. Aislin catches my sour expression and her brow furrows in a disapproving frown.
"Best get that down ye quick as ye can, lass," she chides. "We've no moment for lollygaggin' today, an' I'll not have ye faintin' from an empty belly whilst we've chores to be done."
I sneer inwardly at her words, resisting the urge to make a snide remark about the futility of shoveling more slop into this malnourished vessel. As if an extra spoonful of gruel will somehow transform me from a stunted, lice-ridden waif into a strapping young farmhand overnight. But I bite my tongue, knowing full well that voicing such blasphemous thoughts would only earn me a thrashing from that pious old bitch.
Instead, I dutifully begin shoveling the lukewarm mush into my mouth, each gritty mouthful like ashes on my tongue. Just another glorious morning in peasant paradise...
I shovel another spoonful of the greyish-brown gruel into my mouth, grimacing at the gritty texture. Swallowing with difficulty, I glance up at the wretched woman seated across from me. "Mama, what day is it today?"
She pauses, spoon halfway to her cracked lips, and furrows her brow. "Why, 'tis the second day of the week, De Mairt."[...]