He touches my face with his hand, my body flinches. “Sit still. Girl.”
Two statements, firm. There’s something in the way he says it that makes me feel adolescent. He pulls the straw out of my mouth and turns my chin so that I’m looking at him again. The stool swivels, taking the rest of me to face him. It’s then I realize I am squeezing my thighs together so tightly the muscles are beginning to twitch. My skirt, although draping my knees, does not feel long enough. He parts my lips with his thumb and pushes it into my mouth.
His thumb tastes faintly of tobacco but I suck anyway. The ice cubes in my drink rattle and turn in the glass I am shaking in my hands that are giving me away. My eyes can’t close and now he is smiling in a way that winners do, still no kindness.
Breathe.
He slowly pushes his thumb toward the back of my throat. I take care to lighten the scrape of my teeth over the bump of his knuckle. When my lips meet his hand I begin to choke and automatically reach for his wrist. “Uh, uh, uh,” he corrects, shaking his head, fingers now firm and pressing painfully into my jaw. My thighs clench again and there is a heat between them I know he must be able to feel.
Obediently, I put my hand back on my glass and the cubes return to their rotation.
I relax my throat, as I know how to do, as I have been taught. I feel my knees creating an inviting distance between them. He whispers, “Good girl,” and pulls his thumb back slowly. I hold it with my tongue as it moves; my eyes steady with his. “Yeah, that’s a girl.” He pushes it back in and I take it, tight and gentle. I now think he is considering me for a Roamer or a Subjected; I am hoping for the latter.
The hum of the bar has shifted now as the Keepers finalize their Coveted classifications. Dispatchers leave the walls and walk, waiting to be called. The tension is palpable but I keep my focus. It is important.
When the first scream breaks the drone I flinch involuntarily; my head begins to turn toward the noise, but I remember myself and freeze. The terror inside the pitch of the girl’s screams dwarfs any of the screams made by the animals used during the Trials. To compare them would be laughable. I could never be prepared for this sound or for what I know is coming. I want her to stop. I want to plug my ears. I do not. I can’t.
My Keeper raises his free hand and now I know it is my turn and I brace myself as calmly as I can. A Dispatcher drags the screaming girl next to our stools. My Keeper tells the Dispatcher to begin and he does. I hold my eyes to my Keeper’s and he raises an eyebrow, tilts his head, waiting for me to fail, but I don’t, even when he tells me to watch. I continue taking his thumb like a lover while the Dispatcher breaks the girl. A few minutes pass before my Keeper nods his head and dismisses the Dispatcher, who lets the girl’s body fall to the floor, useless.
When the gun goes off there are reflexive screams from many of the Coveted, but not me. I am still busy with my mouth and tongue. “Good girl,” he says, praising my focus. I want to smile, but cannot. I know my Trial Master would be proud. More Dispatchers begin making some of the failed Coveted succumb and I don’t react. Their Buyers will be upset. I am again thankful I didn’t scream.
“You are doing well.” He pulls his thumb out of my mouth and rubs its slick wetness all over my lips, pushing them like clay, smearing them slippery. I close my eyes and make no attempt to stifle a moan.
He sees this. He knows. He laughs. “I have made a good investment.” And then, “Your testing is over.”
He tells me to stay and I do. When he comes back he takes my hand and brings me to my feet. I am careful to bypass the girl, but I cannot avoid what has come out of her. I do not look behind me, but imagine the tracks my shoes must be making in my wake.
We stop at the Processor before exiting.
“Papers, please.”
My Keeper hands him a thick folder and the Processor scans the pages within, shooting glances at me as he reads.
“Looks good,” he says, closing the folder. He eyes me again. “Okay, let’s code her. She one for the cages? We offer transport help if you need it.”
“No. She’s gonna be a Subjected. My cages are full enough already.”
My heart leaps and untwines at the sound of the word, “Subjected.” My future has been classified. I can walk this path, I think. I hope he is not too cruel in his needs. Even if he is, I must endure. I am a Subjected now.
The Processor lifts the hair over my left ear and snaps open the disc that lies flat against my skin. He punches the scanner’s keyboard and aims the scanner at the exposed disc. There is a high-pitched tone and then a hot flash of pain in my skull like a scab has been ripped off of my brain. Before I can muster a scream, it is gone.
The Processor looks at my Keeper, now officially, “She’s all yours.”
I trail him through hallways connected with heavy doors until we arrive in the transport hub. He puts me in the back of his vehicle and begins to secure me. I slip my legs into the slots and when he smooths my skirt against the curve of my thighs, I tremble. As he pulls and tightens the straps I can smell his strength; the musky stench of it lies thick against my skin. I put my hands into fists and hold them together above my head before he even has to tell me. He clips the metal around my wrists stopping just short of pinching my skin, but then, as if suddenly discovering his reign, pushes the cuffs once more, causing the metal to bite into my flesh. I use my jaw to tame my mouth. I breathe.
He releases the cuffs and studies my face and then asks how I am feeling. When I tell him it does not matter (Canon 7) he nods, grins, and shuts the door.
My Keeper drives the transport into the out of doors where the world is blazing with daylight. I surrender my eyes to the sun, holding my breath as the burning blindness reaches its peak then retreats. I am proud. I have beaten the sun.
For Her
I turn over the book and locate her name. I press my finger on the letters. I stroke her name, back and forth. I want her to feel me doing this somehow. I want her to know I care so much that feeling her name on a book which is just really flat paper that feels like nothing was something I felt compelled to do. I stroke her name and write her this letter in my head. It begins, “If you only knew…”
When it finally happens I hope she will be forgiving for my hands and my mouth will be as hungry and fumbling as that of a teenage boy’s. I hope for this. I dream of my face falling slack in front of her as she releases her bra to the floor. I dream of all of that soft secret roundness, being there, being given only to me, all for me. I see myself forgetting her eyes now as mine wrap around this new flesh, rude and hungry. I will reach for them grabby and earnest, burying my face into them eating them, everywhere with my lips no longer virgin to their taste. She will moan and say yes and run her fingers through my hair as I lick and suck and smother myself wet.
The Honking Was Deafening
The Chinese figure skater fell and it was sad. She looked like a little girl dancing for her father. She looked like a little girl in a new dress, spinning for her father. Look, daddy! Am I pretty, daddy? Daddy, am I pretty? And the falling part is when her daddy says, Leave me the fuck alone, I’m trying to read the paper.