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.