When I pass the kitchen, I glance at the other women who are cleaning the dishes. Their washing seems rushed, as if they are agitated, and horror fills their eyes as they see me.
They only briefly take a look at me before returning to their chores. I should do the same. We’re not allowed to ponder, let alone talk. Not that they could; their tongues were cut off a very long time ago.
I’m one of the few who still has the ability to speak, which is why I cherish it so much. I only use my mouth whenever my Master tells me, though, because I do not want to upset him.
However, I wish, if only for a second, that I could speak to these women. To tell them that it’s okay. I can tell they are anxious, and it’s probably because of me. I never get taken out of my cell so late, so something must be happening. The women must feel it too. I hope they saw the love in my eyes as I looked at them one final time. They were, after all, the women who cared for me all these years while I remained here.
As a prisoner. All of us.
They were the only ones who nurtured me.
Showed me how to please our Master so I would not end up like them.
And now, I wonder if it’s all been in vain.
The man guides me through the halls until we reach the ladder I’ve climbed so many times before. I follow him up through the hatch and out into the light.
“Quickly now.” He grabs my arm and pulls me through the woods until we reach the path where a car usually takes me to the mansion. That is where my Master and his people live. Where I do my chores and anything else they desire of me until they tire of me and demand that I go back to my cell, in which case I am escorted back again. That is my routine and my life as an obedient servant.
Yet that routine is now broken.
We are not on time, and I wonder if my Master will be so upset with me that he might cut out my tongue as well. I know I wasn’t picked up from my cell, but still, it feels as though it is my fault.
As I step into the car and sit down on my seat, the man shuts the door so violently it feels like he shut it permanently. I shiver as he sits down beside me. I never liked him. Especially when he places his hand on my lap, as he does now.
My Master’s people do what they want with me, and I accept it all. However, my Master doesn’t know this man touches me in a way only my Master should. I doubt he would be pleased.
I shiver, a part of me already preparing for the worst. Should I beg my Master for mercy? After all, it is always my fault if something happens that he does not like.
I am a whore. A waste of space. A simple-minded girl who is nothing but a ragdoll, waiting to be thrown out.
If my Master is displeased, it is my fault.
If my Master does not want me anymore, it is my fault.
It is always my fault. And I accept that because that is what I was trained to do.
As we drive over the road, I can’t help but notice we aren’t going to the mansion. The more we drive, the more my heart beats in my throat. I have trouble maintaining my posture and breath, but I fear the consequences if I break. I must not break. I must not ever break.
No matter how many times I want to ask where we are going, my mouth remains shut.
I must not open my mouth. I must not speak unless spoken to.
Questions are for Masters, not for servants.
I answer and submit.
So I remain quiet for the remainder of the journey, trying to keep my fingers from twitching too much. Sometimes, I catch myself gazing out the window, too curious to find out where we’re going, but I mentally slap myself for even thinking of it. I cannot waver from my duty. My loyalty lies with my Master. My life is his and he does with me what he wishes.
Is he sending me away?
Oh God, I don’t know why I’m thinking this, but it is the only reason why he wouldn’t summon me to his mansion. But I must stop. I cannot doubt my Master, not even in my own head.
It is punishable by death.
Sweat trickles down my back as the car stops somewhere on an abandoned road after having driven about an hour or so. The man takes his hand off my leg and opens the door, signaling me to exit as well.
The sun is bright and scorching hot as I step out onto the gravel, blinking rapidly to see the upcoming car in the distance. The man waits until the car stops not far ahead.
“Stay here,” he growls at me, so I do.
Someone steps out of the other car and they both start walking toward each other. In the middle, they stop. They seem to be talking and I watch, wondering what it is they’re discussing. After a while, a suitcase is given to the man who drove me here, and after checking the contents, he gazes at me from over his shoulder and beckons me to approach.
I go toward them, one step at a time, unsure if this is what I should be doing. But my legs seem to have a mind of their own. A curious mind. A mind wanting to know the answers I so desperately seek.
What are they doing and why am I here?
I don’t think it will take long for me to find out. As I approach them, I notice the other man hides his eyes behind tinted glasses and his hands behind leather gloves.
“I assume we have a deal then?” the man says.
“Yes. She’s all yours.” The man I came here with closes the suitcase and nods. Then he directs his attention toward me. “Go with him.”
He turns around and walks back to the car. My feet want to go after him, but a hand on my shoulder stops me from doing so.
“Come with me,” the man behind me says. I attempt to run, but he spins me around on my feet. “You do not need to go back with him.”
“But my Master …”
“Wishes to see you here. Now, come with me.” He pushes me to the car, which has tinted windows, and opens the door for me. I don’t have a choice as I hop inside and the door is closed behind me, the locks clicking into place.
After all … he says my Master wants me here.
When the man gets behind the wheel, I can’t help but ask. “Does … does my Master no longer want me?” I ask hesitantly. The moment the words slip from my lips, I put my hand in front of my mouth.
He switches gears and turns the car around. “Your master wants you with us now.”
The same generic answer, which means he will not tell me until we arrive at whatever destination he has in mind. I wonder where we’re going and what will happen to me, but I know from experience no one will ever tell me if I ask. And if I did … I’d risk losing a finger or my tongue.
So I refrain from asking any more questions and let the man drive me off into the unknown.
Three hours. That’s how long it takes to reach an airport.
My hands and face are glued to the window as I watch the planes fly up into the air. The car stops, but I can’t stop looking at the airplanes swishing off.
He muffles a laugh. “Is this your first time at an airport?”
“Yes, Sir,” I answer.
“So you’ve never seen or boarded a plane?”
“No, Sir.”
“Interesting.” He opens the door and gets out, then allows me to step out as well.
We walk into the airport, where I let my eyes wander around. I’m too interested in everything going on around me to notice that we’re going straight toward boarding. No one is near the entrance we are approaching except the staff. The man shows his pass to the lady as well as one for me. I’m not surprised he has one. Everything is always prepared, as servants are not allowed to do anything on their own.
We walk through the gate and down the long tunnel. It looks like something out of a movie, one of those alien flicks my Master sometimes watches on the tele. Entering the plane is like entering the ship, only there are luxurious seats instead of surgeon’s tables and people strapped to them. I stop to hide a laugh in my hand.
“Go on,” the man behind me says as he pushes me forward.
I walk through the corridor of the plane, noticing no one is actually on board except a flight attendant. When I l
ook over my shoulder, I notice the man is sitting down at the front of the plane, leaving me to wander around on my own.
Right when I pass a seat in the middle, I notice dark hairs sticking up from one of the seats in the back. It’s a circular space with two lavish, leather seats and a table in the middle, resting on a colorful carpet.
As I make my way toward the person sitting in that chair, my heart can’t help but beat faster with every passing second. Am I doing the right thing? Is my Master content with my whereabouts? Will this man finally tell me what I’m doing here?
My breath falters as I pass the man who sits in the chair. I do not look at him because it would be rude. Instead, I lower my eyes to the ground as I turn toward him and make a bow, signifying my lowly stature compared to his.
“Stop.” His voice is magical, beautiful, like a delicate song but with a hint of darkness. “Look at me.”
My eyes travel up his neatly ironed, expensive suit until they fall upon the most intense eyes I have ever seen. Blue, radiant, and vast like the sea, hiding many secrets I want to dive into.
And then he smiles.
It’s something I’ve rarely seen on anyone’s face when they meet me, let alone on my Master. No one smiles at someone like me. Yet … he does, and it’s so gentle, so pure.
That smile … it masks a thousand words yet unsaid.
“Sit.” He points at the chair across from him.
I nod and do as he instructs, sitting down without making a sound.
“Prepare for takeoff,” a voice booms through the speakers. “Seat belts on.”
The man in front of me is attractive, I dare say. About ten years older than I am, so about thirty, and he’s much taller. His gruff, unshaven beard looks rugged, the exact opposite of his soft eyes. Like he’s trying to hide his compassion beneath a rough exterior.
He looks at me as I put my seat belt on and I wait for something to happen.
And if something happens. I’m not prepared for the moment the plane rushes off the runway, my body feeling squashed against the seat until suddenly all weight is lifted off me and I feel free as a bird. The plane has left the Earth and so have we. I marvel at the sight I witness through the tiny window. I can’t take my eyes off the world that grows tinier with every second and the clouds that appear in view.
Only his voice breaks my thoughts.
“You can unbuckle now.”
I do what he says and take a long, deep breath. After experiencing something so exciting, I definitely needed it.
“Do you want a pillow?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine, Sir,” I say, flabbergasted that he would even ask.
“I want you to be comfortable.” He grabs one from a stack next to him on the windowsill and hands it to me. I gladly take it but feel as though I shouldn’t. No one but the women has ever given me a pillow unless it was to sleep on.
Why does he give me these things I do not deserve?
“Thank you, Sir.” I try to hide the blush on my face by lowering my head.
He seems content; the way he looks at me as if he’s happy to see me confuses me.
“So how was the trip?” He grabs the pot of tea from the table and pours a cup.
“Good, Sir.”
“Anything extraordinary?” He puts the cup down.
“No, Sir.”
“Not even the planes?”
I look up at him. “Well, I’ve never seen them before, Sir.”
“Really? Hmm …” I watch him grab another cup and pour more tea. He must be thirsty, and my talking is keeping him from drinking, so I quickly shut my mouth.
That’s when he does the strangest thing. He scoots one of the cups over to my side of the table.
I look at it, wondering what it is he wants me to do.
“Go on,” he says. “Take it.”
I lick my lips, my fingers reaching for the cup. I can already taste the tea on my tongue even before I drink. It’s been such a long time since I drank anything other than water, but I remember the taste of tea as if I drank it yesterday.
“Drink up,” he says as I take it in my hands. “It’s for you.”
I bring the cup to my lips and sip. It tastes like heaven. Hot, sweet, and spicy. So good. I could cry, but that would upset my company, so I don’t. I indulge myself in the taste, letting it linger on my tongue to make it last a little longer.
“How is it?” the man in front of me asks.
“Delicious,” I answer. And then I choke on my tea, coughing. “I mean, Sir. Yes, Sir, it is perfect.”
Oh God, what have I done? I didn’t say Sir. Why? Why must I mess up so many times?
I cower at the sight of him raising a brow. “I’m sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again.” I swallow away the tears and put the cup down, preparing for the worst.
“It’s okay.” He shakes his head, then that same smile appears again. “Don’t worry about it.”
I clear my throat and stare at the carpet. I don’t understand this man.
“I’ve been rude. Let me introduce myself. My name is Marcus Knight. And your name is?”
My eyes widen, and I stop breathing for a second. Then I fall off the chair and drop to my knees, sinking my cheek into the soft carpet. A warm, welcoming change to the cold, harsh cell I am used to doing this in.
“What are you doing?” His voice is stern, displeased.
“I am deeply sorry, Sir. I have disappointed you. I did not mean for you to feel rude. I do not deserve your attention or the tea you so graciously offered me. I am sorry for my mishap, for forgetting to call you Sir. I am humble. I am nothing in your presence.”
I shiver, hoping my words will do him justice and allow me to come out of this unscathed.
“Get up.” The words slither off his tongue like poison.
As I lift my head, I see his infuriated face, and I hesitate to stand up.
“Get. Up,” he growls.
So I do because I always do as I’m told.
“I do not ever want to hear those words coming from your mouth again. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Sir.” I quake on my feet, witnessing his glory.
“And stop calling me Sir.” He adjusts his tie. “Call me Marcus or Mister Knight.”
“Yes, Si—I mean, Mister Knight.” I would not dare call him by his first name.
That is a privilege for those who are free.
“Now, sit.” He seems annoyed as he grabs the pot of tea again and fills my cup once again. “And drink your tea.”
“Yes, Mister Knight.”
I wait for him to finish pouring before grabbing the cup and drinking again. It’s still as delicious as ever, but I do not understand why he wants to give this to me. While I sip, I can’t help but sneak glances at him as he sits back in his chair and relaxes again.
“Do you want to ask me something?” he says after a while.
“I am sorry, Mister Knight. I do not wish to offend you with my lingering thoughts. I was merely admiring your presence. I am not worthy of it.”
“Stop saying those things,” he says. “Ask me what you’re really thinking and stop apologizing for it.”
“Yes, Mister Knight. I’m—forgive me, I was trained this way.” He rolls his eyes, so I adjust in my seat. “Why do you allow me to drink your tea?”
“My tea? It is your tea too now. You’re drinking it.” He narrows his eyes.
“I do not deserve—”
“If I give you something, you deserve it.” He leans forward. “You deserve more than you think.”
I swallow away the lump in my throat. “Thank you, Mister Knight. You are most kind.”
“Hmm …” He sighs and leans back again, clearly not happy with my answer.
“Tell me … Why is it that you feel the constant need to apologize to and praise the people you are talking to?”
“Because that is what I was taught to do. I live to serve and make you happy.”
“No,” he says, his face hardening. “You live …” H
e turns his head, not finishing his sentence. His nostrils are flaring as he gazes out the window.
“Did I say something wrong?” I ask, my heart beating faster as I realize that I spoke without being asked to.
He turns his head back to me again, his index finger resting between his nose and his lip. “Do not be afraid to speak. There are no consequences when you are around me.”
“Yes, Mister Knight. I will remember it.”
“Good. Now, you still haven’t told me your name.”
“I do not have a name, Mister Knight. I have a number. It is 5947. I am what you will call me.”
He frowns. “A number? What do you mean?”
“Each servant has his or her own number, Mister Knight. They are assigned to us the moment we are captured.”
“Hmm … Okay.” He sighs. “What do people generally call you then?”
“Servant. Whore. Bitch.”
His face contorts with every word I speak, his grip on his armrest tightening. “What is your name? Your real name.”
“I … I don’t …” I look down at the cup in my hand, watching the tea swirl around. It reminds me of my heart and my mind … ever swirling as life passes, never stopping to think and feel what is really there.
“Think. What is your name? What were you called before you became a servant? Who are you?”
The questions pull me into the far corners of my mind, to the memory far beyond my reach. That one bloody day when red painted the walls and floor.
The cup drops from my hands, tea spilling onto the carpet.
“Oh, no,” I mutter, sinking to my knees. “I’m so sorry, Mister Knight. I really am. I will clean it up.”
“No, no. It’s okay.” He flicks his fingers. “Amelia!”
“Coming.” A woman rushes through the corridor with a small towel and goes to her knees right next to me, soaking the tea from the carpet without me doing a thing.
“Let me …” I mutter.
“No,” Mister Knight says. “Let Amelia do it. Just sit back down.”
With reluctance, I do as he says, watching the woman clean up my mess. It feels so wrong.
Ultimate Sin Page 2
