Broken

originally posted February 14, 2007

"She is broken," I heard Portia say.
It was not to me, but to sisters of her chain. I think they are pleased to have her returned, but baffled as to what has become of her. Last evening as I spoke to her, the girl who is no longer called Jenny, I saw the doubt in Elise's eyes for the first time. It is a difficult thing to describe, but an easy thing to read. They are only women. Such things are transparent to masters. She wondered if it might not be Jenny; if it might truly be another woman. She shook the notion soon enough. There are more than physical traits and psychological cues that make up women. There are intangibles.
Cup was commanded to fetch wine. She did so and, learning quickly from a cuff delivered to her on a previous evening, she made an effort to offer the wine as a slave offers wine to a man; with deference, with beauty. I was not inclined to rattle her teeth with the back of my hand. She feared that I would be so inclined. She made an effort. The effort was duly noted. However, when my cup was empty she neglected to offer another drink to me. In pointing out this negligence, she swiftly offered to refill my cup.
"I do not wish more wine," I informed her. "Well then why did you..." she started, and swiftly stopped.
I considered beating her again, but her ass still bears the stripes of the previous lashing. I thought a cuff would be appropriate, but it is my guess she still tastes the iron in her mouth from the last time she was backhanded. Cup, it seems, is broken. Up until this point, I had decided to treat her as any new slave. Whatever has happened to her, her mind seems to be a clean slate. So be it, was my sentiment. I own her. This her. That her. Whichever. I had not given it much thought. I own many women. I have business interests. I have other issues that demand my time. She is fit. She is not physically ill. Her tendency to question and second guess can be dealt with. What difference does this make, I asked myself. I started to question her.
"Where were you trained?" I asked. "Besnit, Master," she responded.
"At which House were you trained?" I pressed. "I...I...I do not know," she stammered, falling forward to a position of obeisance. There was a disconnect, that close to the surface, that she was not aware of. It is not, of course, uncommon for a girl not to know the House in which she was trained. Some slaves do not even know in which city they live if it is the will of the men that own them. Joy, for example, was unaware that she was delivered to the House of Clark in Thentis as a fresh barbarian and, from there, delivered to the House of Tenalion in Ar before the sale to her eventual 'first' master, a fellow called Kulgan, occured. We simply tell them what we wish them to know. They are only women. Let them have questions. We will provide the answers at our convenience. Or we will not provide the answers. They are slaves. Cup's disconnect, however, was not due to simply not being told. She had a disconnect. She did not know, but she also did not know why she did not know. She did not answer, "I was never told, Master," which would have been plausible. She answered, "I do not know." I pressed her further.
"How were you acquired?" I asked her. "From my father," she answered quickly enough.
"What was your father's caste?" I asked her. "I do not know," she panicked.
"What was the name of the House in which you were trained?" I asked her. "I do not remember, Master!" she cried.
"What was your father's caste?" I asked her again. "Of what city?"
She decided, finally, that he was a farmer. She was quite sure of it. The brand on her leg was not a brand at all. It was caused by an accident with a scythe. Her mother? She did not remember her mother when I asked of her. Then her mother was tall. Her mother was large-bosomed. She had three brothers. She was sure of it. Three. Some of what she told me, she believed. Some of what she told me, she speculated, answering because she feared not answering. The responses she believed and the responses she fabricated were obvious. It was not a matter of how quickly she responded or how assuredly, it was a matter of intangibles.
My Cup is broken.