Page 65 of Escape from the Green

They'd want my story.

The thought made my stomach lurch.

How could I tell them?

Of the pain that at times overtook my entire body, that became so normal to me that I barely felt minor injuries anymore, so used to the feeling of worse ones.

How could I tell them about the taunts? The beatings? The way I was used to being spat on, humiliated, treated as a lesser being?

They wouldn't be able to relate, so secluded in their little world where no one knew they existed, so no one could do them any harm.

It would pass over, I reminded myself. Like a storm always does. They would stop asking, stop demanding details.

I could be normal again.

My adjustment would be more about showing these people who knew me as one man that I was a new one.

But Amy's adjustment would be more full.

She'd been so sheltered. And while she had never been spoiled per se, she had been pampered in her lovely house with servants and full coffers that she didn't need to contribute to.

She would be expected to work. To till land and harvest. To help the community. To make her own food.

It wasn't a lifestyle to which she was accustomed.

She would feel aches in parts of her body she didn't know existed. She would go to bed sore and exhausted.

She would learn that anything she wanted, she would have to put sweat and blood into it.

A part of me rebelled at the idea. Of her needing to face those realities, of having to work for everything. Some strange part of me wanted her to continue to be pampered, to be able to live a life of comfort.

The other, though, knew it wasn't something I had a say in, that I could shield her from.

It wouldn't be up to me.

The elders would demand she work for her keep like every other able-bodied member of our clan.

True, they might be forgiving of the fact that she wasn't of our stock, that she wasn't born of fire, that she didn't have the naturally stronger build our kind did. Her body was smaller, slighter, more easily strained or broken.

These men and women who I had been raised with, they had been kind, understanding of physical disadvantages, allowing those who could not do the same amount of work to put in fewer hours or do simpler tasks.

But no one would be allowed to sit in their home and do nothing.

Not even the old, the pregnant, the young, or the precious few missing limbs, or without sight or hearing would be allowed to do nothing, to let their lives become useless, to let their bodies become weak and more prone to sickness.

I couldn't stop that from becoming a part of Amy's life.

My gaze went to her - a few feet ahead of me, walking side-by-side with Smoky, the differences between the two women apparent, the evidence of their vastly different lifestyles clear to any who might observe them.

Amy, while slight, small even, was rounder at the hip, ass, breast, proof of a belly that had never known the concave of hunger that Smoky's taller, leaner body did.

And while both were covered in layers now to stave off the freezing cold, I had seen both with fewer clothes on. Amy was pale, blemish-less, each bit of skin milky white and flawless. Smoky was a map of scars, proof of a life of hard work, of near misses, of pain and terror.

Smoky's hair was long, tangled in parts, decorated with things she had found - or stolen.

Amy's was long, but combed relentlessly to a shine, free of any styling or decoration.

If you came across the two at a market, you would know from one glance that the women came from different worlds.