The Blanket
He covered me with a blanket last night as I lay curled on the mat. "The air is
chill," he said. He can do this ... or not ... at his whim. I am learning much
about whim.
I am learning that whim or control is not part of a slave's vocabularly as it
relates to her desires or will. Simply put, she has none. That is such a hard
thing for me. I did many things just because I wanted to do them. I am learning
in no uncertain terms how dangerous that can be here.
We went to the Street of Brands. In all my time here, I'd never been on that
street. There were places I was told I could not go unless escorted and that
street was not anywhere on the list. Except one time, I only went where I was
told I could go.
The Street ... filled with caged girls, girls with matted hair and dirty legs,
girls wearing too much make-up begging to be used for a few coins ... terrified
me. I clutched his tunic until my knuckles turned white. It was not the street
so much as what it represents. I could be there. Probed, patted, assessed and
sold.
I almost threw myself to his feet when the realization struck me. I would have
laid in the dirt, clutching his ankles, begging not to be sold.
I am not the girl who came here and in a fit of arrogance shoved a girl into the
falls because ... because she was rude and I wanted to do it. It is humbling to
realize I am a girl who would lay begging in the dirt.
He covered me with the blanket last night and then chained my ankle. It was
strangely comforting. I thanked him