She

originally posted February 25, 2006

She sat quietly as I cut her hair. She did not complain. With a small paring knife, I trimmed two years of length from her mane. She did not question. When I dyed her silver-grey locks black, taking the time to dye, even, her eye brows, She did not fight. I called for cosmetic. Her lips were painted wetly and red. Her eyes were lined in kohl. She displayed herself nude by the firelight as I directed. Wrist to wrist, palms facing outward, hands high above her head, She stood. Her ankles, too, as though chained, were held closely together. She jut her hip out, unbid. I was not unimpressed. I gave her further instruction. How a woman might move in this position. How a woman should breathe, slowly and beautifully. She did well, considering. When I was satisfied, She was permitted to kneel. She held her thighs open widely. I noticed by the pink scratches she inflicted upon her own thighs before showing me her palms, that She was nervous. Without ceremony, I locked her throat in plain, heavy steel. The women of the Boarding House, the brothel of some renown in the Anbar District of Glorious Ar, wear the same collar. "Your name is She," I told her. "Tomorrow, you will be placed in the coffle."