A tear runs down my cheek for love lost. I keep tabs on her
as best I can, but it doesn’t change that even amongst us eggers, it can never
be. I marvel at the warmth in the tub, I
can vividly remember the cold baths of my youth. There are so many things in
this life that I regret not being able to change, and there are so many other
things that I never would. I relish in
the freedom I now have, but what has it cost me? I push the thought out of my head. The
priests are all the same, unless you’re one of them, you’re lower than dirt.
For a moment, my anger fills the void...but the hollow feeling quickly comes
back. It is always difficult when you don’t belong anywhere.
I count on my fingers. I’m 21 today. I pull
the sleeves of my top down…it wouldn’t do for the people on the station I’m in
to see the slave-scars. It’s odd enough to see a Matari with no markings,
adding slave-scars would open too many questions. One big breath and I stand
and walk to the bar to order a drink. May as well partake if it’s my birthday,
right? The Matari bartender looks at me with disgust. I order my drink, and
watch him closely to make sure he doesn’t spit in it – or worse. I accept the
drink with a nod, and look him dead in the eye. Son of a bitch, he looked ready
to kill me for it, but he turned away first. This will be my life from now.
People thinking I’m dishonored, a criminal, and all it comes down to is my
slavery. Some cruel twist of the fates determined that I would never have what
normal Matari do. I’ll never be able to proudly wear the name markings, or the
tribal markings, or any other tattoo; although it’s not as if I’m worthy of
any. A capsuleer walks in, and I check to make sure it isn’t her. I
wonder…might that be the way out of this? A way to redeem myself?
My fingers are starting to get wrinkled – perhaps it’s time
to get out of the tub. I stand and reach for the towel that was next to me, and
come up empty. Hmm. I must have moved it or knocked it earlier. I step out of
the tub and reach for another that’s on a shelf across the room. I hear a clink
of metal on tile, and spin around. The pistol that’s sitting on my vanity
wasn’t there when I got in the tub…but it looks strangely familiar. I grab the towel and wrap up, never taking my
eyes off the pistol. I walk over to it, pick it up, and look for the monogram
on the bottom of the grip. ZA…it’s hers. What is it doing here? I remember the
first time I saw that pistol…and what I did with it.
I turned to look at my mistress.
She was kitted up in her Navy uniform, and so proud of herself. I’d just
finished packing; she left in the morning. I fingered the grip of the pistol
I’d stolen from her. If that bitch thinks she can just reject me and have me
smiling and saying yes mistress, she can kiss my Matari ass. I had other ideas.
I may only be 15, but even I know that is unfair. That’s how they work though,
they’ll be nice and sweet and roses to you one moment, and then beat you black
and blue the next. I can’t wait until I’m out of this place. My mistress had a
lot of misplaced trust in me. No slave collar, no shackles, nothing but a pair
of gold bracelets to indicate my status; as if it wasn’t obvious from my dress
and physique I wasn’t one of the Amarrian scum. I followed her into the
entryway of her home, smiling to myself. She’s in for a rude awakening. I
approached her slowly, wrapping my hand around the pistol and pulling it from
my pocket.
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