by C. E. Wilson
I’m special to Beauties because I can speak so well. After I scored an Eighteen, my caretakers at the time decided they only needed to iron out my flaws.
Improve my speech.
Work off my baby fat.
Keep my skin clear from pimples or blemishes.
I was brought up almost as a Beauty-in-waiting until my twelfth birthday and the score fell from Eighteen to Fourteen. Caretakers were baffled and couldn’t quite figure out the reason, but after that day I was no longer treated as a possible Beauty. After such a humiliating experience, flawless caretakers shipped me from house to house and demanded that my numbers be changed.
Fourteen was too low.
Fourteen was too high.
Despite the fact it was ‘frowned upon,’ I went to less reputable places to be evaluated including The Grave Market. And eventually, thanks to the lack of care from my purchasers and buyers, I slowly declined from a Fourteen to a Twelve and landed on an Eleven by my seventeenth year.
How many others declined like I had? I was so close and I didn’t even know; I was too young and too ignorant to understand how much had slipped through my fingers. Ugh, and even after thinking about my losses and lack of beauty, I fantasize about the owner of a voice who I can’t see.
I can’t help but wonder what will happen with Celia’s father if I ever meet his approval. I want out of the garage. I want out of these chains. I’m no Beauty like Celia, but I didn’t think I was leaving the chains of my cell only to be chained to a wall in a garage. The collar is heavy and absentmindedly I tug at it as the surroundings grow silent.
I strain, hoping to catch pieces of the conversation going on above, but it’s challenging. My last cell was very loud and it will take time to re-sharpen my hearing. The voices are muffled. I’m barely able to grasp the words, but there are a few which catch my attention and I sit up straighter on the cool, damp floor.
Sponsorship. Ugly. It. The Grave Market.
I gasp. The Grave Market. A set of words no Potential wants to hear.
The Grave Market isn’t really a place, but a term for the underground global Potential trade. It’s as shady as it gets, and many who go there disappear without a trace. Few countries don’t follow the rules of ours, but Potentials here are treated with much more respect than they would be if they were shipped elsewhere. They were true slaves there with fewer rights than most pets.
Toys for bored husbands or wives.
Delicacies for those who enjoy the taste of human flesh.
Quarry for sport hunting.
And there are always harems, especially overseas.
For the first time since arriving in this new place, I realize my knees are quaking and my throat is pinched. The words sponsorship and Grave Market hold such different outcomes for a Potential. You’re either given the chance to truly live or to truly die. I want to say it’s my choice, but that’s not the case as an Eleven. I have to understand that Beauties hold my fate in their sweetly scented hands. I have to please Celia. I have to please her father if I want any chance at Flawlessness. Therefore, I have to stop thinking about the owner of the voice that reminds me of maple syrup.
His voice is not mine to enjoy.
***
A few hours later Celia and her father open the garage door and stand there staring at me. My breath quickens and my heart pounds faster. In the short time away from Celia, I had almost forgotten how beautiful she is and how much she takes after her father. She’s a lucky one, I’m sure. Born into being a Beauty. The father is a born Beauty and I bet the mother is, too. Such good breeding further explains why their child is gifted with flawlessness. Celia has no idea what it’s like to be a Potential. That’s why she doesn’t want her perfect friend to talk about how he was once like me. It’s too shameful to think about.
“Good afternoon, Eleven,” Celia’s father says in a deep, soothing voice. “How are you today?”
Another test. Beauties are always testing Potentials. They want to see how badly we want flawlessness. How much we’ll proudly debase ourselves to please them. I stand up and my chains shift, but I keep my back straight. “Wonderful, sir. I’m enjoying myself.”
Celia’s father smiles, obviously pleased with my response. “So the boy was right. You can speak well.” He glances down at his daughter who stiffens when he does so. “Do you hear it speak, Celia? It speaks well. Almost better than you.”
“I’m sure that’s not true, sir,” I say quickly, hoping to appease both of them. “I’ve had a generous upbringing. Much better than I deserve.”
“Yes,” he responds. “I heard you were once an Eighteen. I’ve had a look at your paperwork.”
“An Eighteen?” Celia squeaks out in surprise. “Her?” She smirks and glances over with her pale green eyes. “What happened? You never grew out of your baby fat? Did your hair fall out?”
“Enough,” her father snaps. “That isn’t the way you will talk to it.”
“But, Daddy—”
“I’m warning you, Celia,” he says. “This is a gift for you, but it’s also a challenge for me. Not everyone has the opportunity to purchase an Eleven. They are a rarity. And looking at it…” he stops for a moment and lets his tongue slick across his lower lip, “… I can see why.”
I’m sick to my stomach. He’s checking me out.
“I’m sure this is all new to you… being in chains, Eleven. I promise you’ll be out of them by tomorrow morning. I’m waiting for a delivery.”
As my lips part to answer, Celia bursts in. “Her shock collar!” she squeals excitedly. “I thought you couldn’t order those here!”
“You can’t, but I only want the best for my little girl,” he coos, stooping down to give his daughter a hug.
Vomit threatens to rise. A shock collar. He must have purchased one through a connection on the Grave Market. Shock collars are highly frowned upon, but like most rules involving a Potential, people look the other way to keep life running smoothly. Once the two stop embracing, Celia’s father turns back to me.
“Aren’t you excited, Eleven?”
Another test. I put on a smile. “Yes, sir. The collar will be good for me. I’ll learn what is and isn’t appropriate faster than most Potentials. I look forward to the opportunity.”
“So well spoken!” he says, starting to step into the garage. Celia reaches out and grabs his arm.
“Don’t,” she hisses. “Wait until the collar comes, Dad. Mom said—”
“Oh… your mother’s being a pain,” he chides before patting her blue hair. “Your mother only wants to keep us safe, but this one…” he turns his attention back to me, “… you’re not going to disobey, are you?” His voice changes from soothing to severe in moments and it’s hard to disobey with his pale green eyes, so much like his daughter’s, taking me in like a dog who might bite.
I lower my head and shake it hard. “No, sir. I look forward to having you critique me.”
“As you should,” he says. “Celia, you may go. Tell your mother I may be a few minutes late to dinner and not to wait for me.”
“Dad—”
“Am I in any way making myself unclear?” he asks, keeping his voice sharp. “Do you want me to take your gift back to the seller?”
No. No! I couldn’t have that!
“Frankly, I don’t care what you do with it,” Celia says with a pout. “You shouldn’t check it without a collar.”
“Go…” he says. “I’ll not say it twice, and if your mother comes in here, so help me—”
“I’ll tell her!” Celia wails, leaving the garage and slamming the door. Celia’s father turns back after we’re alone and his green eyes soften.
“Kids,” he says with a grin. “You’ll learn to deal with her, I’m sure of it.”
“I look forward to it, sir,” I say, hoping to appease him. As he walks towards me, I feel his presence like a storm on the horizon. This is a man who will rage if I don’t please him. His expensive shoes clack across the cement floo
r and as he approaches, he rolls up the sleeves on his expensive business shirt. I lower my head and focus on those shoes and cuffed pants as he comes closer. Finally, he’s standing only a few inches away from me. His warm breath pushes through my mousy hair.
“Kneel, girl,” he says softly.
Without hesitating, I crash to my knees, keeping my head lowered. He paces around slowly, each step deliberate and frightening. I feel like my heart is going to pound right out from my shirt as a heavy hand rests on top of my hair and tests the texture.
“Great hair,” he said. “A hideous color, but brown can be changed.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” I say in a hushed tone. I can barely catch my breath.
“I appreciate the words, but you do not always have to refer to me as sir,” he says. “My name’s Mr. Paulson. You may also call me Shawn.”
“Sir… I couldn’t—” I stammer, but before I can finish, he crouches down in front of me, locking his eyes on mine. A hand reaches out and fists my hair to hold my attention. I grunt in surprise, shocked when I notice his eyes are still soft considering his harsh movements.
“That’s an order, Eleven,” he says with a grin.
“Yes… yes, sir.” He yanks on my hair. “I mean, Shawn. Mr. Paulson.”
“Good girl,” he says as he releases me to stand. “So… what should I call you? Surely your actual name isn’t Eleven?”
I tilt my head. Another test? I can’t tell. I swallow though my throat is like a desert. “I… my name’s Eleven.”
“But your true name?”
“I don’t know how to respond.”
“Tell me your true name. Now,” he says with his back turned. I lift my head and take in his long, lean form. His expensive shoes, his cuffed pants, and his crisp, white shirt. His neck is thick and his hair is blue like his daughter’s. I’m not short, but Shawn Paulson is at least half a foot taller so his body soars overhead as I remain on my knees.
“Grace,” I whisper at last.
“What?” he asks, keeping his back turned. “Say it again. Louder.”
“My name is Grace.”
I expect him to whip around and strike my face. I expect him to tear off my clothes and whip me bloody, but instead, he rocks back on his heels. A cold bead of sweat forms on my hairline as I continue to stare up at him with wide, frightened eyes.
“S-Shawn?”
“Never say your name to anyone but me,” he says. “Not to Celia, not to my wife, and not to any of my daughter’s friends. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Shawn.”
“I know your true name. If I hear anyone else speak it, I will know you have disobeyed me.” He finally starts to turn around. “And you don’t want to disobey me, Grace. I can be everything or nothing to you. Am I clear?”
I nod hard.
“Speak,” he commands. “I purchased you because of your skill in speaking, not your ability to nod your head like a common chimp.”
“I understand, Mr. Paulson. No one else will know my true name.” I try to smile at him, indicating this would be a secret between the two of us. “No one but you.”
Luckily, this appeases him. He steps forward and drops a wet kiss on my forehead, taking away the sweat that dripped earlier. His nose scrunches up with distaste as he pulls away.
“You taste like salt,” he mutters. “You’ll need to be cleaned up.”
“I understand, Mr. Paulson. I apologize.”
“Don’t apologize. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Of course,” I say, though I don’t have any idea how I can prevent this.
“Have a good evening, Eleven. I may come back to see you later.”
“Sir?” I ask without thinking, immediately regretting the error. Luckily he has left the room as quickly as he had come and I’m back to being in the dark. Sliding backwards, I sit heavily on the floor and let my hair fall over my eyes. Despite his beauty, I can tell Mr. Paulson is not always going to be kind. He’s a man who likes power and exercising it on Potentials with mind games, and he is pleased that I understand this.
He could be the one who sets me free, but he could also be the one who destroys me.
Chapter Three
An evening coolness settles over as I worry about Shawn coming back to the garage. I don’t want to think about seeing him. I’ve been a Potential long enough to know how husbands enjoy playing with their daughter’s toys. It’s degrading, but Beauties know how to tempt us and that we can’t resist them. And though I find Shawn attractive, I’m merely a toy to play with when his wife won’t satisfy him.
Sitting in the damp, cold garage, I catch the magnificent smells of dinner being prepared in the main part of the house. Potatoes and garlic. A meat with herbs of some kind. Shawn’s talking to Celia and his wife whose name I don’t remember. Shawn said to call her Mrs. Paulson at all times and never, ever call her by her first name.
Her voice is the one that asks in an exasperated tone, “Did you feed it yet?”
Shawn’s reply is clipped. “No. It can eat later.”
“They’re not dogs, sweetie. You have to feed it. I bet the poor thing is hungry.”
“He shouldn’t go out there,” Celia’s voice says. “It doesn’t even have a shock collar! It was supposed to come today.”
“I’m sure it’s coming,” Shawn says. “And as for Eleven, I’ll feed it after you two have gone to sleep.”
“Yeah,” Mrs. Paulson says, snorting as the heavy clank of metal fills my ears. “I bet you will.”
Another clank comes, heavier than the last. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Shawn’s voice asks.
“It means I know more about those things than you think I do,” Mrs. Paulson replies. “And I want you to—”
“Don’t you start,” Shawn says. “Just because our neighbors can’t control themselves around the beasts, doesn’t mean I can’t. You’re being paranoid and ugly.”
“What’s she talking about, Dad?” Celia asks.
“Yeah, Shawn. Tell her. What’s she talking about?”
“Enough from both of you,” Shawn says. “I bought it for Celia and that’s final.”
“You bought it to help yourself,” Mrs. Paulson snaps.
What did that mean?
“I bought the beast to help all of us,” Shawn says. “Now. If you want me to feed the beast, I will.”
I catch the faint sound of a chair sliding away and heavy footsteps. They could only belong to Shawn. More dishes clank around and I squirm uncomfortably against the chains.
“Dad! Don’t go out there!” Celia wails. Another chair slides across the floor. “Let me do it!”
“Don’t touch me!” Shawn bellows over his daughter. Bodies shift inside and I sit up on my knees.
He’s coming out to feed me. He’s yelling about me with his family. To be defended by a Beauty is such an uncommon occurrence that I seek shelter. The leash won’t stretch far, but I’m able to hide right as the door flies open and Shawn’s imposing frame fills the doorway. He’s holding a large bowl and he quickly shuts the door behind him, making Celia’s voice sound muffled.
“Come out,” he commands. “Apparently Elevens can’t eat later.”
I poke my head out from behind the large box and look at him carefully. Confused, I notice Shawn’s face soften as he rolls his eyes.
“I’m not angry with you, Eleven. I’m not going to hit you. Come out from there now. I will not ask twice.”
Shuffling quickly to my feet, I scamper out from behind the box and kneel in front of him as he approaches. Remaining on his feet, he begins to lower the bowl to eye level and immediately I’m hit with the delicious scents. My mouth waters and a disturbing sound erupts from my stomach.
“I… I’m sorry,” I mutter, hoping not to displease him.
Shawn laughs and begins to kneel down. “It’s all right,” he says softly as he holds the bowl out for me. As I begin to reach for it, he pulls the amazing aroma away. When I glance up at
him, he arches a brow.
“S-sir?” I croak out, eying up the food. I’m confused. He smiles and holds out the food, but doesn’t let me take it. I glance over the rim of the bowl and see it’s filled with mashed potatoes, butter, and chicken breast. I lick my lips hungrily. “Shawn?”
“Use your mouth,” he says in a gentle voice, holding the bowl under my chin. “I didn’t bring any utensils, Grace.”
“But I can use my hands…” I trail off as he starts to pull the bowl away. What does he want me to do? To eat like a dog in front of him? I suck in a gasp as I realize what he’s doing. He’s playing another game with me. Another show of power. He wants me to understand my place in his home and, though he’s kind, I cannot take anything for granted. I give Shawn a resigned nod and he brings the bowl up to my face and slowly I lower it, lapping up the potatoes and butter like a dog finishing his master’s scraps.
“Good girl,” Shawn coos, chuckling at the sight. “You’re a fast learner, Grace.” He switches hands so he can hold the bowl with only one and runs the other over my hair. His touch is soft and I shudder while I continue to eat, breaking off pieces of the chicken with my teeth for easier digestion. Butter and potatoes cover my nose and chin, but I don’t stop to wipe it. Trying to clean up might displease him, and that’s the last thing I want to do.
After a few moments, Shawn starts to lower the bowl and as I stoop to keep eating, the hand in my hair fists sharply, halting progress.
“Enough, Grace,” he coos. “Don’t be a hog. If you get fat, you’ll be an Eleven forever. You don’t want that, do you?”
“No,” I say softly as he sets the bowl down next to me. I can only hope he’ll leave the food. A snack before sleep is always nice. I make sure to show Shawn gratitude. “Thank you,” I say. “You were kind to feed me.”