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1
PENNY
Heat trickles down the back of my neck, the endless sweat blurring the line between my clothing and my skin. I am covered in sores and blemishes, and the chafing of the abrasive fabric against my flesh aggravates me, driving my hand constantly away from my craft.
Craft.
I chuckle at the thought.
I run the straw under the piece in my other hand, but the insane itching makes it tremendously hard to focus, and the distant, uncaring sun pools its scorn onto my body. I scratch fingernails across the hard bumps of my skin, further irritating them in exchange for momentary relief.
“Not producing very much today, are we, Penny?”
Saccharine overtones badly disguise conditional hostility. I turn my head to see the greasy, disheveled elven face of Malachi, inches away from mine. His hand touches my shoulder, and he rubs his own long, dirty fingernails into me.
“A beautiful thing like you has no business starving,” he says. “Don’t you want to eat?”
His mouth opens in a mock imitation of a smile, revealing pointed fangs and plaque. His breath reaches my nostrils, and I fight pangs of nausea, his untrained hands throwing the nerves in my back out of unalignment. I want to pull away.
I say nothing, my eyes returning to the straw in my hands. All I can hope is that he’ll lose interest and go away.
Yet for all of my years of knowing him, I know that I’m only deluding myself.
“Your technique is lacking,” he says, watching me do the labor I provide in exchange for my life. “No, not like that. You’ve got to maintain a tight grip.”
His hand digs into my shoulder tighter, and he runs his nose over my hair, sniffing it. His rough, greasy hands cover mine and his unsavory musk nearly overpowers me.
A current rises up inside me, wanting to carry him into the ocean and hold his head underwater. Imagining his last breaths and how his eyes would widen in panic as he drowns brings me such solace. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that keeps me going.
My body wants to freeze. Malachi continues to push and test my boundaries in an attempt to break me, but I have to at least keep up the appearance of work.
After years of conditioning, my hands move on their own.
My mind fights the urge to acknowledge the itchy sensations that run down the length of my back, but trying to pretend they don’t exist only makes them more insistent.
If you just keep working, maybe he’ll move on.
Just keep working. Don’t make him mad.
“Stuck up bitch,” he finally says.
I don’t pull away from him, but as he presses against my body while I work, I don’t lean into him either.
“Sorry, Malachi,” I say, almost convincing myself that I mean it. “Like you said, I’m behind.”
He scoffs.
He stands up and moves his body away from mine. I think he’s done with me, and that he’ll move onto one of the other women in the camp.
“Just for that,” he says, venom oozing from his voice. “I’ll be expecting double the product from you. Fail, and you starve.”
I can hear the caustic nature he’s always had. But underlying his voice, there’s a bit of a glee too, as though he’s not unhappy with scorning me. As if he’s been looking for a reason.
Sighing heavily, I attempt to return to my work, looking back up at the overbearing sun.
The straw in my hands rubs against my skin. I roll it, pinch it together, overlap it, and tie it together, all in the name of producing baskets to be sold. When I finish one basket, I retrieve another bunch of straw from the large pile beside me.
All the while, the insane demands I’m going to have to abide by just to receive my daily rations run through my mind, replaying constantly. My hands cramp and tense, my heart pulses wildly, as basket after basket, I see the impossibility of my quota. My mind fills with doubt, my stomach growling.
