Authors: Tabitha Rayne
At last they stopped at one of the many doors. It looked the same as all the others. She cursed herself for not being more attentive to her surroundings—she could have, at the very least, counted them. Deborah ground her jaws together and was happy to realize that a little bit of fight was starting to show, even if it was only directed toward herself for now.
The guard turned the handle without knocking and the door swung open. She swept her arm in a grand gesture to urge Deborah through. Deborah followed into a huge and completely unexpected room. A smartly dressed woman sat behind a large mahogany desk and two robed women sat behind a more modest table, conferring quietly in low tones with their heads dipped toward each other.
“Name,” barked the woman who was in silhouette. The morning sun flooded through the bay windows behind her, making the room feel strangely darker by contrast.
Deborah didn’t answer. She waited for the woman to look up and ask again.
“I asked you your name,” the woman said again, but this time looked directly at Deborah.
“Oh, you were talking to me?” Deborah held the woman’s stare indignantly. “It’s just that I couldn’t tell whom you were addressing.”
Small gasps came from the robed women, who Deborah guessed were Archmatria – the nun-like elders and their followers who seemed to be taking a more prominent role in governing the land since the decline of men.
Although her features were in darkness, Deborah could tell by the way her body softened that the woman was smiling.
“I do beg your pardon.” She placed her elbows on her desk and clasped her fingers under her chin. “Let’s start again. May I have your name, please?”
Deborah took a moment to consider her situation. She thought quickly but carefully about inventing a fake identity but something told her not to. “Deborah Regan.”
“Thank you. Usually, new inmates give a false name. I’m glad you chose to be honest. It gets us started on the right foot, wouldn’t you agree?” The woman shifted position again and peered at the papers in front of her. It was quite a substantial pile, and Deborah’s heart began to race. Could it be… “Now, you are here because left your place of employment without notice while working on vital research which may help to save our species—indeed, all species. Do you have any concept of how important your role is and how damaging your disappearance was to the project?”
Deborah was not expecting this at all. Her skin flushed and she began to panic.
“I’ve heard evidence to the contrary,” she ventured. “If my work is so important, why were none of my theories acted upon? And why, tell me this, was my house raided in the middle of the night?”
“We caught wind of your attempt to conceal a male.”
Deborah’s heart lurched at the mention of Marcus but she knew the woman was lying. “That’s not the only reason. You wanted to steal my research papers and destroy them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We pay you to find a cure. The male is a separate issue. Concealing a male is a serious offense and leaving your research, colleagues, and the project in the lurch is even worse. You will be kept at one of our facilities where you will partake in work to identify a cure.”
Deborah wondered whether this was the best person to talk to about the information her research had uncovered. For all she knew, this woman might be part of the group trying to twist the findings for their own weird genocidal gains. The more data they had, the more damage they could do. Her mind worked quickly and she weighed all the details she had about her situation. She decided rationally that she would not trust this woman but keep her theories on what the results of her research would be used for to herself.
“You will give me a lab?”
“If you agree to certain conditions.”
“What kind of conditions?”
“I have not been made aware of the details, Doctor Regan. I’ve just got to convince you that this is your best option.”
“Do you mean my only option?”
The woman laughed in a not altogether unkindly way, and it was with an almost empathic tone that she answered, “No, Deborah, it’s not your only option. It’s your safest option.”
Deborah gripped the notebook tightly under her arm. “Fine,” she answered carefully. “I’ll do as you say, but I want you to answer one question for me.”
“I’ll try my best.”
“What will become of Marcus?” She had to consciously steady her voice and then her breathing as she waited for the answer. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the Archmatrias conferring.
“I’m not really at liberty to tell you that.” The woman paused in a way that suggested to Deborah she was considering telling her more than she ought to. “What I can tell you is that he is safe. You don’t need to worry about his well-being at all.”
“Thank you,” Deborah answered and fell silent. There was a distinct feeling that her time was up. The atmosphere suddenly changed; the Archmatrias and the woman behind the desk rose together. Deborah felt the guard’s hand at her elbow.
“Archmatrias Ara and Jones will escort you to the facility.” As Deborah was led out by the trio, she was sure she caught the woman whispering, “Good luck.”
A chill ran through her as she was jostled along yet more corridors and hallways until eventually they passed through a modest door to the courtyard outside. Deborah let the little girl in her squeal as a carriage pulled by two horses drew up.
“Someone’s getting the gold treatment,” the guard whispered to her in a menacing way which Deborah just put down to jealousy. After all, how many times would any lowly guard get to travel in such style?
Deborah climbed in after the two Archmatrias and took her place on the surprisingly comfortable bench seating behind. Her heart sank a little as the carriage lurched to the side and the big guard clambered in, taking a seat next to her. The bench was considerably less comfortable when being crushed up against the armrest and window handles. She shuffled up and tried to make herself as small as possible, which wasn’t too difficult sitting next to a real live hulk of a female.
One of the Archmatrias, who both sat on tapestry-covered cushions in front, signaled out to the driver to proceed.
The morning was crisp and clear, the kind of day that brought a glow to Deborah’s chest despite the circumstances she found herself in. Somehow the breathy mist sigh of the land and the eerie call of a crow gave her new hope about the future. After all, she reasoned, it could have been a lot worse. She trusted that Marcus was safe and she also knew, as she reached surreptitiously into her clothing and brushed the notebook with her fingertip, that one day they would be together again. There was no doubt in her mind about that at all.
Tiredness from her fitful night in the cell washed over her as the hypnotic gait of the horses lulled her into that soft, relaxed state and her eyes gently closed. The murmuring voices of the three women rolled over and through her like a soft woolen blanket and she let herself drift off without a care for the meaning of the words.
In her dreams, Deborah was lying with Marcus in the dappled shade of the clearing where they’d first stopped in the forest. Marcus’s hand traced a path over her naked flesh, raising goose bumps and giggles. In the dream, Deborah somehow knew that they weren’t in reality, but as he leaned in to whisper something, it was with such lucidity that she woke up abruptly with the words ringing through her brain.
Find me at the meeting point.
The carriage slowed and swayed to a halt in front of plain wrought iron gates which opened into an austere courtyard in front of a drab, daunting concrete building. A prison. Not a “facility”.
“Oh look, it’s sleeping beauty,” the guard said with a tone of disgust as she pulled herself free of the cramped backseat and got out.
“How long have we been traveling?” Deborah asked, blinking away the sleep. Surely it could be no more than half an hour; she felt like she’d only just closed her eyes.
“Three hours,” answered one of the Archmatrias.
Deborah couldn’t believe it. Again, she felt stupid at not paying more attention. If she’d kept a look out, she could have got her bearings in preparation for her future escape. Frustration and anger bubbled up inside and she clenched her fists, trying to stop the tears from springing into her eyes.
It was strange how she could feel hope blossoming one minute then utter defeat and despair the next.
Following the Archmatrias meekly, with the guard prodding her back occasionally, Deborah was taken in and processed at the reception. She kept silent as the handover took place and didn’t look up when the three women who had brought her there said goodbye. All she knew was that the hand that led her to her “room” was cold and sharp. Bony knuckles and nails seemed to dig at her as they navigated stark staircases and long, repetitive corridors.
“This is where you’ll be sleeping. The schedule for everything is on the back of the door, along with the rules. I trust you can read?”
Deborah rolled her eyes and passed by the new guard into the cell. As the door began to close, the guard had something else to say.
“Breakfast tomorrow at seven AM sharp. Be ready.” And then there was a slam and the sound of a key clunking in the lock.
Deborah looked around her room, which didn’t take long. One window, quite high, yet with views of the courtyard, perimeter wall, and moors beyond; a small cabinet for her things, and a metal-framed bed. She pulled out the notebook and placed it on the cabinet. It was sticky and warm, having been clamped to her body for the past twenty-four hours. Her pillow and linens were folded at the bottom of the thin mattress, and Deborah quickly shook them out and made up her bed. At least she wasn’t sharing.
The bed was surprisingly comfortable, and she pulled it into the middle of the room, where the sun streamed in and fell onto it, letting the rays heat her tired body. Reaching over, she picked up Marcus’s notebook and flopped back, resting it on her belly. For a few moments she just lay, there watching it rise and fall with the quiver of her breath, then lifted it to her face, fanning the pages to try and catch a whiff of his lingering scent. A hint of her lover floated across her and she brushed the pages lightly to her lips.
The scrawling, messy writing that Deborah used to criticize for being illegible was now a joy to behold. Wanting to cherish this moment, this mystery, for as long as she could, she teased herself further by flicking the pages back and forth, catching glimpses of the tantalizing sentences. As she slowed everything down and opened the first page, panic suddenly tore through her. What if this was a book dedicated to Marcus’s misery—trapped in a house with her as his only company? What if he resented every moment of his life with her and this was the evidence, the record of that resentment? After all, he had taken the time to hide it from her. Deborah’s stomach lurched but her curiosity overrode her fear. With trembling fingers she began to read.
A diary of physical love, by M
Deborah bit her lip and turned the page; the sound of blood swooshing and beating filled her ears. The scribbled date showed that diary began just shy of a year before.
My love cried out in that way again—halfway between pleasure and anguish. How I love to hear that rush of abandon as I taste her on my lips, trembling like a butterfly in my grasp. Her heat, her warmth, the gush of liquid as I take her with my mouth and fingers. I always assumed she was under my control, that I owned this piece of her ecstasy...I created it. But now I know I am completely lost in her. It is she that owns me—completely and utterly. I am hers.
Deborah sniffed back the emotion that was lapping at her tear ducts as she read.
I am the one who takes her to the brink of her abandon, but it is she who jumps off, beckoning, urging, forcing me to follow and fall into that place of such purity, such utter sweet oblivion, that I wonder sometimes if we will ever return. Sometimes when I come to, I panic she is still there, lost in that spiritual haze, but she always returns to me…
A bird flew past the window, casting a brief shadow over the text. Deborah laid the notebook down on her chest and let the words sink in. She had thought that falling into a strange, trance-like state during orgasm had begun in the forest, but she could now see that it had always happened. How could she have been so oblivious to her own reaction? Was she really so different to everyone else? Surely it must just be a natural physical release?
Turning her face to the sun, Deborah let her hand creep down under her skirt and between her legs. Repeating the words she’d read over and over in a mantra,
I take her with my mouth and fingers, I take her with my mouth and fingers
, Deborah began to rub herself in rhythm around and around, gathering the fleshy lips between her fingers and pressing them on her clit. Her breath quickened and her pace intensified but she felt no mounting of pleasure or rising of heat in her groin. Frustration caused her to grit her teeth and rub harder but no arousal would come. Throwing the notebook to the floor, Deborah rolled over, pressed her face into her pillow, and sobbed.
* * * *
The sound of the door being unlocked woke Deborah and she sat up quickly, gathering her sheets around her as a tray with food and drink was brought into the cell by a tiny woman. She was small and birdlike—even shorter and thinner than Deborah. A tiny thrill pulsed into her chest, and she wiped her swollen eyes as she thanked the woman, all the while imagining how easily she could overpower her to make her escape.
She smelled the food and was suddenly ravenous. Crying had given her a low, beating headache and hunger made her weak. The escape would have to wait until she’d gathered more strength. Feeling more positive, she managed to smile at the little woman who struggled to haul the heavy cell door closed behind her. Dishes rattled and clattered as the dinner lady made her way to the next inmate with her rickety trolley. It was to be the sound of impending freedom to Deborah.