A Slave
28 years before Danro's death
The furniture was meticulous. The massive bed, the ebony bedside table, the modern bedside lamps, the electronic curtains, the calm wall paintings, the intense lightings. Anything was within sight under the brightness, and everything was just marvelous. It was a special room.
If a woman was screaming in pain from inside, and if the door and windows were closed, not even the whisper version of the scream would be heard from outside. And that was very important. Every wave of echo should suffocate inside, every wave of shriek must die inside. Everything must be carried out with care, or else the neighbors would hear. Now who would want them involved? Anyone who heard wanted to watch, and it was an unspoken understanding as to what happened to anyone who heard, or watched.
Prashe Cooks had been such a customer to this room. To prove that she had been, one could just go up to her and ask what she knew about it; the proof would be her tears, which would rain the moment she was reminded. No one had ever asked, though. No one knew about the room, except for the customers.
Prashe lay naked on the edge of the massive bed, soaked in tears and sweat... and soon blood—but not yet. Her third visit here, and—boy!—she was panting. Lying supine, her elbows supported her torso, and two tripods stood on either side of her legs. As was the culture, she opened and comfortably propped her legs on each tripods. It was suitable this way.
The door made a key turning sound, clicked, and locked. There. A mark of the start.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
A pair of oxfords alternately clicked the floor and stopped between the tripods. Prashe peeked at him for so long as two seconds and turned away, wheezing. Her heart rate climbed, and her lips formed a worried, straight line.
The man (a man?) sat on a swivel chair amid the tripods. His voice was rough and dominant. "Push."
The muscles about her belly and groin suffered. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, and the baby was only starting to stretch her limits. The large baby crumpled her back and abdomen. She felt the heaviness tearing her inside apart as it slowly made its way. It crowded her body and tensed her pipe cruelly. The white blankets reddened to the dripping blood.
"Push."
She obeyed with a shrill, which in the end transformed into an animalistic groan. The pain was too unbearable that she wanted to give up halfway and let it kill her. Then he ordered. When he passed an order, it was to be obeyed.
"Push."
The baby safely slipped out and rested into the man's arms. She felt every muscle on her back and groin sighing, truly grateful of the relief. Under the bright illuminations, her body glistened, sweat dripping from her neck and spine and thighs and calves. Her elbows skidded and her back flattened on the bed.
When her baby began crying somberly, she disregarded the aftermath, tracing the man's arms with her eyes, as he walked across the room. Using his other hand, he unlocked the door. Locked door had a meaning, as did an open door. He then took back his seat, wheeled it away from the tripods, and looked at her baby. The baby was out of her field of vision, covered in blankets.
He caught her eyes fumbling to lay a sight at her child.
"Out."
With an unaffected contempt, she glared at him for a fraction of moment and crawled off the bed, silently weeping. Her legs had no strength left in them, and she could only wend out of the room on all four, like a sad, embarrassed dog with its tail between its legs, a nude mother crawling out as rivulets of blood streamed down her thighs.
But the blood wouldn't leak and kill her; so much had she been promised in the contract.
#kr #review #everyone #shortstoryintro
28 years before Danro's death
The furniture was meticulous. The massive bed, the ebony bedside table, the modern bedside lamps, the electronic curtains, the calm wall paintings, the intense lightings. Anything was within sight under the brightness, and everything was just marvelous. It was a special room.
If a woman was screaming in pain from inside, and if the door and windows were closed, not even the whisper version of the scream would be heard from outside. And that was very important. Every wave of echo should suffocate inside, every wave of shriek must die inside. Everything must be carried out with care, or else the neighbors would hear. Now who would want them involved? Anyone who heard wanted to watch, and it was an unspoken understanding as to what happened to anyone who heard, or watched.
Prashe Cooks had been such a customer to this room. To prove that she had been, one could just go up to her and ask what she knew about it; the proof would be her tears, which would rain the moment she was reminded. No one had ever asked, though. No one knew about the room, except for the customers.
Prashe lay naked on the edge of the massive bed, soaked in tears and sweat... and soon blood—but not yet. Her third visit here, and—boy!—she was panting. Lying supine, her elbows supported her torso, and two tripods stood on either side of her legs. As was the culture, she opened and comfortably propped her legs on each tripods. It was suitable this way.
The door made a key turning sound, clicked, and locked. There. A mark of the start.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
A pair of oxfords alternately clicked the floor and stopped between the tripods. Prashe peeked at him for so long as two seconds and turned away, wheezing. Her heart rate climbed, and her lips formed a worried, straight line.
The man (a man?) sat on a swivel chair amid the tripods. His voice was rough and dominant. "Push."
The muscles about her belly and groin suffered. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, and the baby was only starting to stretch her limits. The large baby crumpled her back and abdomen. She felt the heaviness tearing her inside apart as it slowly made its way. It crowded her body and tensed her pipe cruelly. The white blankets reddened to the dripping blood.
"Push."
She obeyed with a shrill, which in the end transformed into an animalistic groan. The pain was too unbearable that she wanted to give up halfway and let it kill her. Then he ordered. When he passed an order, it was to be obeyed.
"Push."
The baby safely slipped out and rested into the man's arms. She felt every muscle on her back and groin sighing, truly grateful of the relief. Under the bright illuminations, her body glistened, sweat dripping from her neck and spine and thighs and calves. Her elbows skidded and her back flattened on the bed.
When her baby began crying somberly, she disregarded the aftermath, tracing the man's arms with her eyes, as he walked across the room. Using his other hand, he unlocked the door. Locked door had a meaning, as did an open door. He then took back his seat, wheeled it away from the tripods, and looked at her baby. The baby was out of her field of vision, covered in blankets.
He caught her eyes fumbling to lay a sight at her child.
"Out."
With an unaffected contempt, she glared at him for a fraction of moment and crawled off the bed, silently weeping. Her legs had no strength left in them, and she could only wend out of the room on all four, like a sad, embarrassed dog with its tail between its legs, a nude mother crawling out as rivulets of blood streamed down her thighs.
But the blood wouldn't leak and kill her; so much had she been promised in the contract.
#kr #review #everyone #shortstoryintro