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He’s still watching you.
I shake my head, not daring to look behind me. His eyes run me up and down… I can feel them analyzing and ogling me.
Just move on.
After several hours of working, the sun has started to descend. Though it might just be from all of the accumulated sweat, I can feel a small chill overtake me.
I look proudly at the five baskets I’ve managed to finish. They are primitive, and their quality isn’t going to win any awards, but at least I hit the mark.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Malachi approaching me. He’s wearing a sickly grin.
Not this shit again.
“Wonderful job,” Malachi says, failing to convey any meaningful sincerity.
“Thanks,” I say quietly as I look out over the baskets.
He picks one of the baskets up and inspects it, moving his fingers over the contours and details. For several minutes he is silent as his eyes peel over the contorted straw.
“Penny,” he says, rubbing the straw edges of the baskets. “The quality of these baskets is way too low.”
I shake my head, my fists balling up and my teeth gritting together.
I don’t expect every aspect of my body language to be scrutinized.
“Oh, you can be upset with me all you like,” he says, his voice artificially hoarse. “But you’ve failed yourself today.”
My stomach revolts, growling and gurgling discontentedly. The waves of the ocean crest over my ears, attempting futilely to calm me down.
“So I just don’t get to eat then?”
His indifferent gaze upon me sends chills down my spine. His eyes run over every curve, from my waist up to my breasts.
“I didn’t say that,” he says, staring at my lips and moving in closer. He shakes his head. “No. I’m sure there’s something we can work out.”
Around the camp, the other women bury themselves in their work, refusing to acknowledge me. His hand creeps up my side, his face moving close to mine, and this time, I can’t help but recoil.
His reaction is instantaneous.
Seeing my resistance, he immediately lifts his arm. Before I can respond, he brings a chilled, clawed hand against my face.
He slaps me.
The collision rings out, filling my ears. On my cheeks, I can feel blood starting to trickle where his nails dug into me.
His expression is not rage-filled, but cold and indifferent.
“Why do you continue to make this so difficult for yourself?”
My stance hardens, and I turn away from him, digging my feet into the ground as my back springs up to full attention.
I see women shaking their heads, either due to my pointless stubbornness or due to the injustice of the situation, but none of them will dignify my presence. Chiefly, there are elderly women around me who moved to this labor camp after being deemed unfit to work harder labor. I wonder if they, in their infinite experience, have simply learned something I haven’t, or if they’re really just that selfish or cowardly.
Beyond the tents that surround me and the other workers who refuse to acknowledge me, I can see miles of ocean. There’s something so beautiful about its crashing movement, and were I not so terrified of its vicious and unforgiving depths, the ocean would be my only escape from this wretched camp.
Somehow, the idea that millions of tiny organisms exist beneath the surface, indifferent to my suffering, calms me. I turn to face Malachi.
This is no way to live.
