by V T Bonds
The projectors run 24/7, except for one stretch every year—the three weeks during our Ruts. We would never allow such obnoxious visuals in our den during such intense moments.
During my last Rut, Vander tempted fate and snatched one of the betas from my pod. While I had no attachment to the female, instinct took over and demanded I rise to the insult. Somehow, in our minimally furnished rooms, we left the place in ruins. We were both bloody and bruised before we came to a stalemate. With my knife poised at his throat, and the muzzle of his gun under my chin, we stood with teeth bared until the need to Rut wiped out any thoughts of fighting.
My focus returns to the screens as they reconfigure. Now the news feeds are a border of motion in an otherwise black abyss.
Vander saunters up to the table, mockingly snaps to attention, and barks out, “Form up!”
We all raise an eyebrow and sigh in exasperation, then find places to park our asses.
“Lazy sons of bitches, no respect for your superiors,” Vander jokes. Relaxing back and crossing his arms, he shakes his head and dons a disappointed expression.
Words appear on the screen and we each soak up the information.
Once the specifications end, the screen stays black for a second.
It’s a recon mission to a desert city named Claena—an in-depth history is available in our personal devices. We are retrieving data logs from old military sites and collecting blood samples from the population.
We must not alert anyone of our intentions. The population of Claena is all Beta. A group broke off from the nearest city ages ago, and they are so secluded that all knowledge of human subspecies has fled their society.
With travel, the mission should take no longer than six weeks.
Special equipment includes a patch that attaches to our watches and bands that wrap around our upper thigh. The patch contains a self-cleansing needle in a numbing agent. It deploys with a specific touch. The thigh band accepts the relay from the needle and stores the blood sample information.
The walls configure back to the news feeds. After exchanging looks, we turn towards our dens and begin preparations. The mission has begun.
Chapter Four
Her - Unknown
I am surrounded by normality, but I can’t shake this feeling that something monstrous and abnormal is creeping close. I’ve had this nagging feeling before. It’s as if a large figure is looming over my shoulder, oozing malicious intent, but when I turn to look, it has vanished.
This feeling has plagued me only a few times in my life. Most recently, it happened the afternoon before the maid never came back from market. I brushed it off, since nothing had ever happened before. A fluke, or coincidence, was the only thing I could chalk it up to. Even after the sensation dissipated and she never returned, I can’t believe it’s important to my life. My only choice is to ignore it as best as I can.
I pull on my protective covering, ensuring it’s tied in front so minimal sand can pass through. As I reach up to pull my head cloth from its hook, the alien feeling increases. My heart thumps in my chest. There can’t be someone behind me. I would have heard them enter the kitchen. I turn my head, dreading what I might see behind me. My eyes search my surroundings, but all seems the same as it did a moment ago.
I let out a shaky, exasperated sigh, but the sensation remains. I slip my head cloth on, scoop up some empty sacks, and force my legs toward the little door. Today is market day.
The harsh sunlight glares off the depressing view. Crumbled buildings and half standing structures jut from dilapidated stone walkways and sand. Sand everywhere—in each groove, covering every surface, grinding down every rock, returning everything to the dunes.
I visit the granary, bargaining for what the Chieftess has demanded. The men in these streets would rob, beat, or kill me if I hinted at being the Chieftain’s maid, so I am careful with my words and actions. I have a few coins, so they are eager to make business.
The previous kitchen maid was very adamant on ensuring I understood the social nuances in our society. One wrong word to the wrong person, and my throat would be slit. My life would spurt out of me onto the sand, and I’d die like so many other wretches in these streets. She wasn’t a gentle teacher, but she had my best interests in mind. She needed the help I provided in the kitchen and did all she could to keep me alive.
Training my gaze on the ground surrounding my path, I hike down market street. I exchange a few coins for a heavy sack of potatoes, and fling that over my shoulder, hating the extra weight.
I stop at the vegetable tender and pick the best ones available. The dirty, squinty eyed man behind the table looks at me suspiciously, but when I pull out the allotted monies, his eyes relax. He nods at me and shoos me away.
Market days are miserable. They leave me with aching muscles, sand all over my skin, blisters on my feet, and bruises on my shoulders—my bags are always too heavy. My sandals are so worn that the soles have holes and the straps threaten to snap with every step. I’ve tried to mend them many times. They are a sad example of protection, but any barrier between my feet and the scalding sand is better than nothing.
I long to drop my sacks and take a break, but to do so would mean to lose them. The street is busy, and everyone is desperate. Police enforce enough decorum, at least in this crowd, that if someone has an item in their hands, it belongs to them. Anything not clutched is fair game, and once the morning market end, the rules become obsolete. The main shops close down and the police go home.
So instead of taking a break, I hike my bags higher onto my shoulders and trudge on.
I approach the fruit stand, and my heart sinks. Tears well and I inhale a shaky breath to ward them away. After holding my breath for a moment, I let out an exhausted, disheartened sigh. Only a few blemished fruits remain piled in burlap and leather baskets in the sand. My soul cries out in despair, knowing that this will lead to more pain. My body will have to endure more abuse if I return with food this sickly.
I stoop to the ground, knowing that whatever I take back will mean punishment. As I rummage through the subpar items, the ominous feeling from the kitchen increases. The hair on my nape rises, and fear causes me to sweat. My muscles shake with the strain of balancing, stooped with my bags. My attention flees into the crowd, and I know I must look.
I lift my head and peer into the chaos. Through the bustling, busy street, my eyes lock on the silhouette of a man. My chest tightens as I watch him. He wears typical desert garb, which obscures his build and coloring. He’s a little taller than those around him, but he’s gesturing and interacting as a normal haggler would. His debate with the shopkeeper blends into the market flurry, but my senses have singled him out of the gathering. Something in his mannerisms doesn’t fit, though I can’t pinpoint what. Gloom hangs over me as I realize what’s troubling me. Each of his movements hides restraint, grace, and menace. His posture changes and I get the impression that he senses me studying him.
He begins to turn in my direction, and emotions overwhelm me. Panic freezes my body as my insides clamor. My soul yearns to connect with his, the need so great that I imagine my soul stretching from my body, reaching for him. An overpowering need for him makes me feel parched and shriveled without his presence. A deep and hollow pain forms in my chest, more intense than my empty belly. Fear encompasses my mind and causes the rest of the world to dim, causing my panic to change. I must retreat. I cannot explain or describe it. My instincts urge me to flee, to drop everything and scurry away like the roach I live as.
But my pride refuses to show such extreme cowardice.
So, before he turns the rest of the way in my direction, I force my eyes back to my hands and lower my head. Every part of me shakes in confusion, a cacophony of emotions battering around inside me. I sort through the fruit again, refusing to look anywhere else.
I imagine his eyes on me and continue my futile search for edible merchandise. The pain in my body and agony in my soul fight to tear me apart. His eyes
move away, and a tiny sigh escapes my lips. My shaking lessens, and I tell myself I am relieved.
But there isn’t enough fruit to fill the Chieftain’s expectations. Another dilemma with no positive outcome. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
I’m feeling damned for keeping my eyes downcast. The yearning still fills a part of me.
But reality intrudes. Men never have good intentions toward a servant like me. And the fear I felt was extreme.
I made the right choice.
I choose the best items and pay the shopkeeper.
Damned if I do. Damned if I don’t.
With heavy, downtrodden footsteps, I make my way back to the wretched kitchen and try to shore up my might for the trials to come.
More chores await.
∆∆∆
A sharp pain radiates down my legs and I gasp, unwilling to wail in distress. Only two more.
My legs strain to keep my position and my sweaty palms struggle to keep hold of my ankles.
Another lash, and tears pour onto the floor. The last strike is harsh and unrelenting. My breathing is erratic, my body shakes in pain, and adrenaline keeps my heart rate high.
“Stand up,” my guardian grunts.
I release my ankles and try to raise myself in a coordinated manner, but my tired and tortured body doesn’t want to cooperate. Pure force of will finds me standing, my hands clasped in front of me and my head bowed.
“I require fresh fruit on market days. Do not disappoint me again,” the Chieftain demands.
I keep my head lowered but respond in a shaky voice. “Yes, sir.”
His large sandals fill the top of my vision as he steps closer. His size has always intimidated me, since he’s the largest man I’ve ever met. He seems to tower over this world with distaste, always sour because no one ever lives up to his expectations. He’s more robust than the rest of the world, but he enjoys ample food and drink, so his health is no shock. His round, pompous nose takes up most of his visage while his shaggy, thick hair frames his head and shoulders with a dark, slick halo. His cold eyes complete a calculating expression.
“Dinner will not be late. Go!” he demands, his tone full of menace.
I respond with, “Yes, sir.”
Refusing to scurry like a kicked dog, I keep my shoulders back and head to the kitchen. I long to weep and tend the back of my legs, but cannot afford the luxury. A late dinner means more lashes.
Without even brushing the tears from my face, I begin the evening meal preparations. Salty drops continue to leak out of my eyes and my hands shake, making chopping a difficult task. Usually this isn’t such a challenge. Punishments and chores are constant in my life. Lashes are regular. These latest additions are mild compared to others I’ve received. They weren’t even on bared skin.
So why is my body still on high alert? Why won’t these tears cease? Why am I shaking so strongly?
The memory of his presence fills my mind. The stranger’s silhouette from the market this morning resurfaces, and emotions clog my throat. I cannot battle the physical pain with the soul-deep confusion. This yearning for a stranger’s attention doesn’t mix with the hurt in my legs. I feel ripped apart inside and worried for my sanity.
I drop the sliced vegetables into the stew, wash my shaking hands, and splash water onto my face. Walking over to the corner, I slide into the tiny slot between my cot and the wall. I pull my heels in, wrap my arms around my knees, and hide my face in my lap, curling as small as I can. Then I focus inward.
I am a grain of sand. Small. Compact. Indivisible. Solid. Inconsequential. One.
No room for emotions. No fear, heartache, or misery. Just me.
No mystery. No loneliness. Just me, a singular grain of sand. Other grains surround me, but they don’t matter. I am all I have, and all I require. None other will carry my burdens. A deep inhale. With a forceful exhale, I unravel my body, centered.
My legs throb, but my hands are steady, and my soul is silent. I resume the arduous task of cooking a three-course meal.
∆∆∆
Three days have passed since my stolen moment. I have ‘earned’ at least four punishments, but nothing has breached my focused protection.
Four canings in three days is less than normal, but since the previous maid’s disappearance, I’ve been so buried in chores that corrections are too much of a waste of time, or so the Chieftain says.
I am a grain of sand so I can’t be broken any further. I clean and cook and do as I’m told. The unnerving incident in the market is unimportant. I tell myself that any fear or yearnings I felt were fake. The man with the overwhelming aura has no bearings on my life.
“You! You slovenly, selfish little bitch! I know my husband gave you instructions to get me fresh fruit!” the Chieftess screeches from the kitchen doorway. She refills her lungs and screams, “Yet I haven’t had any for DAYS!”
I release my grip on the water pump, ending the flow to my wash bucket. I was gathering water to scrub the dishes from breakfast. A faint tremor begins in my fingers. Her corrections are frightening in their intensity, her emotions ruling her actions, making her unpredictable. I clasp my fingers in front of me.
“You are useless!” she shrieks, stalking towards me.
My insides yearn to shrink away, but I refuse. My body stands firm.
Her slap lands on my cheek, forcing my face to the side.
“You’re nothing but worthless trash!”
Another blow on my ear this time.
“Garbage!” Her harsh backhand hits my other cheek.
“So disgusting even your parents knew to throw you out!” Again, her hand hits my ear, and the strike makes noise explode in my head and spots dance behind my eyes.
I stumble backward, hitting my lower back on the counter.
“Don’t run from me!” she spits, unbalanced.
The sound of a switch whistles through the air. My left shoulder burns so fiercely I can’t breathe. She swings again, but I curl before it lands, so she hits my upper back instead of my exposed shoulder. Fire licks through my skin.
Again she swings.
I endure. There isn’t much else I can do. She lashes me a few more times, but quickly tires.
Breathing heavily, her large chest heaving and her wide hips blocking my view, she snaps, “I WILL have fresh fruit for dinner!” She stomps out of the kitchen.
I shake, half stooped in front of the counter. My face is wet. I lift my hand and swipe across the moisture.
Only sweat and tears. No blood.
My arm and torso scream in agony.
My garment is torn over my left shoulder, where the switch hit non-padded bone. A welt swells bigger as an ugly bruise spreads.
My ear rings and my cheeks emanate heat. They’re too sore to touch.
A sob wrenches from my guts. I shake harder but can’t let myself fall to the floor.
The sheer chaotic rawness of the Chieftess’ lashes always cut deep into my psyche.
I force myself to straighten, but don’t bother to stop the gut wrenching sobs and shaking. I shuffle to the water pump and push through the tortuous pain as I finish filling the bucket.
Chores do not cease just because a punishment has wrecked my body. If I fail another task, worse will occur.
∆∆∆
I’ve prepared and served lunch. On a typical day I’d wash laundry now, but with the Chieftess’ proclamation, I have to go to market.
A few hours ago, the Chieftain called me to his office. I had found a few moments to hold a cool washcloth to my face and shoulder, but other than that, was still as the Chieftess had left me. After a disgusted look, he thrust a few coins across the worn desk with a curt, “For fruit.”
I suppose my response was adequate, since he didn’t correct me.
So now I have maybe an hour and a half to retrieve fruit before lunch clean up begins. In a haze of pain, I pull my tattered outdoor covering over my shoulders. By now, my welts have ceased their fiery pain and in
stead throb with a deep ache. My ear no longer rings, but the sound on that side is fuzzy and distant. Among my swollen cheeks and tight neck, my lower back screams in misery. I drape my sand protection around my head and over my face. Grinding my teeth against the agony, I place a sack over my shoulder and head for the door.
The heat outside is a living thing, forcing its terrible fingers into my injuries. Even the wind suffocates me in pain because of its heat. I try to regulate my breathing, but decide it isn’t worth the effort. Short, panting gasps are all I can manage as I make my way to market.
Noon time market will be in full swing, and while there isn’t a safe side of town, midday guests are of the seedier type. Those with authority spend the hottest time of day indoors, leaving the unscrupulous and less fortunate to fend for themselves.
I attempt to stay alert, but my hurts make it hard to focus.
Chapter Five
Her - Unknown
Shattered. I have lost my grain of sand solidarity. I have no whole; large chunks leave gaping wounds in my soul. My parents, of whom I have zero memory, have left a miserable hole in my soul. Humans are familial creatures, and no matter my horrid experiences with other people, my sense of abandonment is keen. I have no one to belong to, not even myself. Pain is too intrusive, too much of a companion, for me to find myself within this cloud of misery.
A large hand clamps on my wrist, shocking me into awareness. Short fingernails lead to dry, cracked knuckles. Fear hammers my heart into my throat, causing my vision to narrow. My cheeks throb in tandem to my heartbeat. Loose fabric covers the man’s arm, the wind flapping his cuff around his wrist. Up and up, to a bulky bicep and higher still to a wide set of shoulders.
A full, golden beard hides what must be a thick neck and strong chin. His lower lip is visible, but a bright blonde mustache covers his upper lip. A strong, proportionate nose juts out between masculine cheekbones. His head covering obscures everything else except for clear blue eyes. Shockingly intense, they force their way into my soul, and his fingers tighten on my wrist.