Making It Right

If I close my eyes, I could imagine I am in the right place. I could drape myself in the gentle whites and glittering silvers of my wedding gown, interpret the throbbing beat of a hundred foot soldier’s boots against the dock as trumpets and drums, change the soft sweaty hand in mines into the gentle clasp of a man’s rough fingers. If I close my eyes, my country wouldn’t have been burnt to ashes and dreams, and I wouldn’t be waiting to board the blood and sweat and tear stained deck of a slave galley.

 I wouldn’t be gazing at rows of silent prisoners, a mass of beaten, stinking humanity, stretching behind and before and a part of me, with eyes that have seen the depths that humanity stoops to when law is nonexistent and morality a string to be stretched until it snaps. I wouldn’t be shriveling into a burnt out husk of what used to be a girl under the scorching gaze of a sun that holds no more warmth.

 If I close my eyes I wouldn’t be here but yet I refuse to let my eyelids slide down and make it so.

 I refuse to become like the men I saw wandering through my hometown in the months after the capture of our capital, eyes unfocused and parched mouths muttering meaningless phrases.

 I refuse to become like my mother as she buzzed around our kitchen, disregarding the lack of ingredients as she frantically prepared my wedding meal, a meal she knew could never happen as there is no wedding without a groom and mine was long gone in the sweeping winds of death and destruction the enemy bought.

 I refuse to become like the woman once shackled to me as we were forced to march, her arms clutching a ragged bundle to her painfully thin body. Throughout the long, weary, mindless days she held her bundle, crooning and nuzzling it, but it never stirred, not even to emit a faint whimper of hunger.

 I remember the sinking feeling of horror, then the trickles of pity that sent a shiver up my spine and made me avert my eyes from the empty pile of rags the woman wrapped her arms around so possessively. I remember even more vividly, the declaration of one fat soldier, ruddy and top-heavy with wine, that he would make her a real baby. Her mind was too slack already to comprehend his lewd insinuation and the bawdy jokes that followed, her gaze ever focused on her illusionary baby.

 But that night she was gone, empty chains in the place she resided at my side, and I never saw her again, just like those mad men in my hometown eventually faded into the background of our dreary lives, just like my mother eventually withered away, dreams shattered.

 I refuse to suffer their fate, and so I slog through the brutal reality they escaped.

 We are prodded up the groaning ramp now, the squeaking of the damp wood and the mindless tramping of hundreds of feet the only sound in what used to be a busy port city. But no traders will come to hawk their wares to a dying country, and so it remains as silent as the dead bodies and broken buildings that are now it’s only inhabitants. I am engrossed at the sight of this empty city, a city I see filled with the ghosts of merchants, tourists, costumers, ghosts clad in bright clothes, jingling even brighter coins, ghosts that duck and fade and dart away when I try to focus on them.

 I blink. Minutes past, I refused to close my eyes and indulge myself in fantasies, and here I stand doing just that, even as my eyes remain wide open. But much as I try to blink them away, the ghosts crowd my vision, and so I stumble on a crack in the wood even the most dull-witted captives knew to avoid. I fall heavily to my knees, pulling the girls shackled in my line down along with me.

 Though it would take only a moment to scramble back up and continue trudging up the line, we remain still, like rats who have roused a snake and are waiting to be swallowed. I know what comes next, and judging by the silent accusations and prayers in the blood shot eyes of the girls around me, they know too. Frozen in place, I can hear muttered curses and threats as one of the soldier’s draws nearer, cracking a lash thunderously against the ramp. My back muscles tense in anticipation of the blow, and to my disgust, my eyes close, unwilling to see the inevitable red stream that will trickle down my back and pool at my feet.

 It takes some moments for me to realize that the hissss-thwack of the lash hasn’t materialized and neither has the resulting pain. Instead, there are voices arguing over my hunched body, more curses, and then an iron grip on my shoulder, pulling me to my feet. Unassisted, the girls around me rise hurriedly, but they lean away from me as if there is still a threat in my vicinity. The threat reveals itself when it tugs at my chin with the same iron grip that clutched my shoulder, forcing me to look directly in its wide, fleshy face. It takes some moments for my disoriented mind to register that I am staring at a soldier and his mouth is grinding away.

 “....ungrateful little princess, aren’t you gonna thank me? If I had let that fat fool whip you, you wouldn’t be fit for selling and I’d have to toss you overboard. Be a pity to kill such a nice little thing.””

 I stare at him, still unsure what he wants from me. Thank him for what? For sparing me a fate I will surely suffer at some point, if not now, then in days ahead? I could offer him thanks, but my version of it will come in the form of spittle on his fat, stubbly cheek so I think it wiser to keep my mouth shut and let him grind on.

 “We gotta keep you pretty for the buyers, don’t we? Where you’re headed, they only take the pretty ones.”

 He obviously notes the incomprehension that flashes in my eyes and he leans in closer now, mouth set in a wide leer that displays crooked teeth, blackened by a diet that is probably primarily made up of dates. Several of them are missing, leaving gaps for his rank breath to whistle through.

 “They’re gonna sell you to the brothels, girl.” His grin widens and his tongue darts out to lick his fleshy lips, before he drops his next comment in a voice that drips with lechery.

 “Think I’ll be your first costumer.” His gaze rakes up and down my figure, and I can feel him undressing me with his eyes almost as if he had done it with his hands. Bile rises uncontrollably in my dry mouth as I realize that if what he says is true, the day isn’t far off when his hands will get involved.

 The soldier is still watching me, eager to catch the horrified expression dart across my face when I realize my fate, and when it does, he bursts into raucous laughter and shoves me back in the line. My chains rattle as I’m pushed off balance into the captives still huddled on the ramp, but they barely move as I stumble into them, too drained by years of sadism to react to one more blow. I barely move either, mind still frantically mulling over the fat soldiers words. I have no reason to doubt they are true, for I know of the invaders infamous pleasure houses and judging by the debauchery of the men that have taken me captive, I can predict how often they are frequented.

 I am prodded further up the ramp, swept along on a wave of moving prisoners and the chains that bind me to them. My feet have no say in the final steps toward a destiny that looms before me like a scythe that has cut through all my ambitions.

 A house of my own. Swoosh.

 The man who I loved and who loved me in return. Chop.

 Time and pride and little ghost babies that could have been mine. Slash, whack, jab.

 If I remember anything more that I’ve lost I will break down so I plod on, distracting myself from frantic thoughts about what lies ahead by watching my fellow captives. All are noticeably young, no older than twenty. Tear tracks and haunted, darting eyes make it obvious that most know or sense our final destination.

 We are shoved into sitting positions, girls on one side of the narrow ship, boys on the other. I assume they want us unsullied until our future patrons can have their way with us and I wonder if they can comprehend the idea of men and women sitting alongside each other without immediately descending into hedonism. Most probably not, and so we travel toward the brothels in chastity.

 The thought twists my lips into a sardonic grin, one that fades quickly as I feel the deck shift underneath me. The wooden vessel groans as it is shoved out of the harbor, voicing the lament I dare not release. I take in a final view of my country, eyes dry. I will not let the last memories of this place be blurred with tears.

 I look away quickly though, for this desolate wasteland bears no resemblance to the country I once loved. Its Temple, the cross roads of the faithful, is burnt to the ground, the air around it stagnant and reeking of blood when it used to ring with the sound of joyful prayer. Its people are exiled and what is a land without its people? Nothing but an empty stretch of grass and valleys and mountains, devoid of all life but the vultures who have enough dead to feed them for generations.

 A murmur so faint for a moment I think I have imagined it interrupts my brooding. I turn to the source of the noise and meet the gaze of an elderly woman.

 On second glance, I realize it is a young slip of a girl but her eyes….Involuntarily, I shudder. Her glassy green eyes contain more heart-rending experiences than most people see in a lifetime. Her blonde head barely reaches my shoulder, and her features are exquisite underneath the grime and blood.

 I can see why she was chosen for this boat.

 She opens her chapped lips and I realize she is repeating herself.

 “Will you go?” The question slips out in a voice so quiet I almost miss it, but there is a strength to it nonetheless.

 “Go? Go where?” I respond, unconsciously mirroring her hushed pitch, bewildered as to where she thinks I can possibly go to.

 “To the brothels,” she responds simply, in a tone so reasonable that for a moment I contemplate the choice. Then I laugh. It trails off quickly however, as I never realized before how broken laughter can sound and it unnerves me.

 “Well since I am shackled to the boat headed there, yes I suppose I am going to the brothels.” My bitterness doesn’t seem to faze this strange girl. Dreamily, she trails fingers thin and as brittle as twigs in a wide circle around her body.

 “You could go there.”

 I swivel my gaze, looking for the coastline or isle she may have discovered, but only the salty grey waves of the sea meets my searching glance.

 I can feel a groan crackling at the edge of my throat as I realize I have once again been shackled to a madwoman.

 “There is only the sea around us.” I answer briefly, turning away. I have no desire to have my energy sapped by some poor girl’s delusions.

 “I know.” Her response seems to contain a grin in it, and when I turn around her face is indeed twisted into a faint smile. She seems to be laughing at some private joke and it makes my skin crawl. I never did learn how to manage deranged people, despite my life being littered with them in recent years.

 “So what of it? If we are surrounded by sea there is nowhere to go.” My answer is brusque, but I see no other way to end this strange conversation, though it sends a small stab of guilt into my gut. I ignore the twisting feeling. Guilt is a privilege reserved for those free enough to do something about and I cannot.

 “What they will make us do…its wrong you know.” Instead of ending it, I only seem to have sent this conversation into new realms of oddness.

 “Of course it’s wrong!” I snap back. “But I doubt your realization of this will stop the boat and send our captors to their knees in repentance!”

 “No, it won’t. But we don’t have to remain on this boat.” Again she flicks her hand in the direction of the water and with a suddenness that makes my stomach feel hollow, I realize what she intends to do.

 “You will throw yourself into the sea to drown rather than be enslaved.” It is a flat statement, not a question, as I can see the resolve burning in her eyes now, a bright emerald flame.

 “Rather than do wrong.” She corrects me gently. In the silence that follows her words I can hear the rapid breathing of the girls who surround us and I realize that our exchange has not gone unnoticed. The green-eyed girl still stares at me, and I stare back, unsure of what she wants. I flush under her scrutiny, as I sense she desires something I cannot, I will not give her. 

 “Well?” She prods, and her question makes me flush further.

 “Well, what? No, I will not throw myself in the ocean, are you mad? I will not commit a meaningless suicide with you!”

 “But they will make us do wrong.” Her mouth opens slightly in wonder as she repeats her mantra, and something in me snaps.

 “Wrong? You speak to me of wrongness? I’ll tell you what’s wrong! What’s wrong is that these soldiers, these beasts, will come home to their families, their wives and children, and we will never have a family again! What’s wrong is that they will pay homage when they arrive to their gods for keeping them safe and fat and prosperous and our God cannot be found, our God is nowhere!” I am panting, spent from the strength I needed to dredge up the words that have been simmering in the pit of my stomach since I’ve been taken captive.

 “My whole life is now a series of wrongs, and so one more does not change anything.” I spit out the last few words. Red mist clouds my vision, and so I cannot see her reaction. I can hear it though, and it puts a pin in my balloon of rage.

 “You can stop it though. You can stop the wrongs. One step, and our captors go home with nothing. You can make it right.” She whispers her last sentence, in a voice like a prayer. 

 My heart seems to slow, my mind swirls and echoes with words. The green-eyed girl is rising, wavering in place, but I remain still.

 You can make it right.

 Can I? Can one final act straighten the crookedness that is my existence now? I cannot fight, I cannot run, but I can die, and maybe that is the greatest act of rebellion. A rebellion against the depravity my captives wish to force on me, depravity I can escape.

 In my statue form, I watch the girl who has thrown me into this whirlpool of confusion scramble toward the railing, lithe figure moving gracefully. The soldiers are coming, I can hear their shouts and curses, but the girl disregards it. She balances for a moment on the thin barrier, the only thing between her and the merciless waters below, and searches the crowd that begins to surges before her. Whether they are desperate to stop her, or eager to follow, I do not know. Her eyes, alight with fervor that draws me to them like a moth to the light, stops at mines. For a moment we stare at each other and the frantic activity that surrounds me seems to fade away. There is only green and grey and the crashing spray of white, then with a serenity that seems laughable in this pandemonium, she steps off the railing and splashes into the waters below.

 For several moments, the very world seems to fall silent, then screams tear the awed atmosphere to shreds. The soldiers are enraged, muscled chests swelling and fat jowls waggling but they only seem pathetic to me now.

 My mouth stretches into a wild, unrestrained grin and I plunge toward the railing. Hands reach for me, clawing at my clothes, my hair, my skin, trying to keep me bound but I run, shackled yet free. I have made my choice and it breaks my binds more then iron keys ever will. Arms outstretched, I raise my eyes to blue sky above and let myself fall into the cold embrace of the sea. Around me I feel the splash and pressure of warm bodies, and I realize I am not the only one who decided to end the wrongness, here and now.

 I do not fight as the water closes its greedy jaws around me and my body stops longing for air after the first lungful of water. I know I am leaving this world when darkness begins to bleed into my vision and though people surround me, I truly am dying alone. Yet, I am not scared, I feel no pain.

 I have made it right.