x Tx - Normally Special

I called my dad because it’s Father’s Day. He still calls me princess. “Hey, princess! How’s it going?” Whenever he calls me princess I smell him on me even when I hold the phone at arm’s length. It’s almost suffocating. I swallow and say, “Hi, Dad, happy Father’s Day. What’s on the agenda?” My dad always used the term, “agenda.” I think it made him feel smarter than he really was. “Not much. Claire just took in the laundry and we’re folding it. Larry King’s on.” His hands were the thickest, biggest, and dirtiest I’d ever experienced, even until this day. Even after being with construction workers and plumbers. “Sounds great, dad. Just thought I’d call and all… Check in and whatnot.…” He had this leather tool belt that made a sound like hell was about to break loose each time it would hit the floor. His pants would fall down along with the tool belt because they had no choice. I knew how they felt. “Thanks, princess. You take care.” He’d have already loosened his work boots. He’d step out of them and they’d sit there with his pants piled on top. I would stare at them imagining he’d melted. “Bye, dad.” He’d always be the opposite of melted and I’d never feel like a princess. Even when he’d call me princess soft and soft, then louder and louder as if he were trying to make it true.

Throwing candy out to the crowd. I want to see all of their colors. I want to fall into the spray of them. I feel there is a cure there, somewhere, in the warmth and wet.

I now know my words won’t make you love me.

But I will keep trying because every wall in the world is waiting for the impact of my head.

The blood is still no consolation. Can you believe that?

When we finally go out for coffee it will be uneventful. My hands will still tremble because that’s what they do when they get close to the truth.

Uneventful means, “not what I need it to be” and, “not as good as I hoped it would be.”

I don’t know where to put my punctuation.

I know that no matter how cute I would be or how pretty you thought I was, you wouldn’t reach across to touch my face.

If all I want is lying beside you and you not wanting that moment to stop, even with more than enough clothes on, is that not such a small wish that could be granted?

I bought lollipops for strangers once.

I told an ugly girl she had the prettiest eyes I’d ever seen.

I get things off of high shelves for short old ladies.

Why can’t I get granted a fucking wish?

I am hiding from my gardener now. He is mean and brown.

The auction was hours over. The Coveted were made ready and released to their Keepers. The Buyers, who could now relax, settled in around the edges of the room, boasting their profits to one another behind the backs of hands, taking care not to sit near any of the Dispatchers. A confetti hum rose and fell as tense excitement built in the dim; the testing had begun.

Mine took me with an owner’s grip to a stool at the bar. I sat, hands folded, eyes down. I knew to be quiet and become small (Canon 14) as he went through my documents, asking me several questions about similar subjects — a drilling. He gave only what he wanted. I took it, which was my place (Canon 17). I told him my truth when asked, trying to give my voice strength, not wanting it to sound as feeble as it sounded to me. The Trials had already been so hard; I just wanted to get through the testing as quickly as possible.

Forty minutes later he says, “It’s time. Look at me.” And I know I have to. My head is stone heavy like the ends of my hair are tethered to the ground. His face will be forever and I don’t want to see it yet, there are years to see it, decades, and I am afraid of what I will find there. I must take care to breathe.

He repeats himself, more forcefully this time. I tilt and look, my neck cramping with the new movement. He is dark, as expected, his face wide, skin smooth, head, bald. He looks strong, bullish, and younger than I expected. His eyes grip mine and I shiver, feeling the intensity of his stare run through my body like a current. I now know the testing will be easy. He is a Keeper most Coveted would long for, I am a lucky one. I search his eyes for any kindness but he is not showing any yet. I know that won’t come until later, after the testing is through and my classification confirmed.

I know to keep my expression even (Canon 12), but he is a force and I am alone now and nervously blurt, “I was the top ranked in obedience during my Trials.” I cringe with the mistake as soon as the words leave my mouth.

“Then why do you speak without being asked? Do you not realize this is testing? Do you not see your file in front of me?”

I nod and look down. “I am sorry.” Feeble. Again.

“Cage fodder,” he slurs and the words create a pit in my stomach. What have I done? Have I already failed? I fear the cages. We all do.

I bring my drink to my lips, taking a long sip through the little red straw, and immediately regret the swallow as I am starting to feel tipsy. I should not drink to excess (Canon 13). My eyes cross, fighting to stare at the ice crowding the surface. I am upset I gave words without permission (Canon 6). It is one of the most basic of the Canons. My Trial Master would be irate.

He touches my face with his hand, my body flinches. “Sit still. Girl.”

Two statements, firm. There’s something in the way he says it that makes me feel adolescent. He pulls the straw out of my mouth and turns my chin so that I’m looking at him again. The stool swivels, taking the rest of me to face him. It’s then I realize I am squeezing my thighs together so tightly the muscles are beginning to twitch. My skirt, although draping my knees, does not feel long enough. He parts my lips with his thumb and pushes it into my mouth.

His thumb tastes faintly of tobacco but I suck anyway. The ice cubes in my drink rattle and turn in the glass I am shaking in my hands that are giving me away. My eyes can’t close and now he is smiling in a way that winners do, still no kindness.

Breathe.

He slowly pushes his thumb toward the back of my throat. I take care to lighten the scrape of my teeth over the bump of his knuckle. When my lips meet his hand I begin to choke and automatically reach for his wrist. “Uh, uh, uh,” he corrects, shaking his head, fingers now firm and pressing painfully into my jaw. My thighs clench again and there is a heat between them I know he must be able to feel.

Obediently, I put my hand back on my glass and the cubes return to their rotation.

I relax my throat, as I know how to do, as I have been taught. I feel my knees creating an inviting distance between them. He whispers, “Good girl,” and pulls his thumb back slowly. I hold it with my tongue as it moves; my eyes steady with his. “Yeah, that’s a girl.” He pushes it back in and I take it, tight and gentle. I now think he is considering me for a Roamer or a Subjected; I am hoping for the latter.

The hum of the bar has shifted now as the Keepers finalize their Coveted classifications. Dispatchers leave the walls and walk, waiting to be called. The tension is palpable but I keep my focus. It is important.

When the first scream breaks the drone I flinch involuntarily; my head begins to turn toward the noise, but I remember myself and freeze. The terror inside the pitch of the girl’s screams dwarfs any of the screams made by the animals used during the Trials. To compare them would be laughable. I could never be prepared for this sound or for what I know is coming. I want her to stop. I want to plug my ears. I do not. I can’t.