The Secret Life of a Slave

Autumn



A crisp, chill wind flows across the house, stirring up whatever loose assortments of paper and contagents are caught in the crossfire of an autumn breeze. I stand in the kitchen, carefully rinsing and washing an ever-decreasing pileup of dishes coated with crusty chunks of food and stained.



Just then, however, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a sight that sends butterflies down to the depths of my stomach. I casually tip my head upwards, as if nothing specific had caught my attention, and I see a large, clumsy red car approaching the house from on down the road. This can only mean one thing, and I revel in the knowledge that soon I will have an excuse to finally leave this home, even if only for a little while.



I soon get escorted to the celebration grounds by an equally large and clumsy blue car, and I ride with the 0ther Martha's. I keep to myself, head down, and eyes narrow, but my mind works furiously. "What does it look like outside of these steel walls?" "How long will I spend away?" And probably the most important question, "Who is the handmaiden that we stand to honor this time?"



The anticipation is killing me.



The car stops, and the door opens steadily, revealing a large palaceesq building, where we are to conduct our celebratory customs.



I am placed in the kitchen, and, as ordered, prepare the usual offering of fruit juice.



How ironic.

We're feeding those who sell their body's, and don't respect womankind at all.

I walk through the door, and steadily give the nursing handmaid a cup of violet juice, and notice the air of stress in the room. The commander sits anxiously in a chair, watching, waiting. Serena Joy is not present at the moment, but she'll be back. Handmaids have formed a large circle around the hormonal creature in the center, and I can smell the stench of sweat on her flesh as I back away from her.

She is pathetic.

Only valued for her sex, as all handmaids are.

Simply pathetic.

Summer

It's warm.

The air is stale, and the stench of sweat dangles relentlessly throughout the home. Crisp, jet black hair dangles beneath my shoulders, and I feel truly sorry for the handmaids that are forced to wear a veil in this heat. It would make things that much more unbearable.

Upon occasional eye contact, the first thing I pick up on is their immediate judgement. Slim, petite, and helpless. That is what I know they think of me. The only thing that they think of me.

But it doesn't bother me.

It's only a thought.

I cook, I clean, I speak, I think. That is all I do. Temptations don't exist anymore. Not like they used to. The old, pleasent memory of lasting euphoria and sweet needles is slowly fading, probably for the better.

But that doesn't mean I don't miss it.

I constantly reminesce of times when I would seal myself away in alleyways, beneath docks, and when I would travel hundreds of miles out into country, in a car, with just a syringe and a small, light bag of heaven.

Happiness.

Pure, simple happiness.