No Escape: A WeWrite Sponsored by @owasco

As soon as I left the room, the infernal itching began, again. In there with him, the maddening, I've-got-to-scratch-it itch had disappeared. My focus was survival. And the nagging question, where is Belinda?

No one had seen Belinda for weeks. She'd displeased him, more than once. None of us dared mention her name, though her absence loomed large in our existence. Belinda was not the first to disappear.

We had all volunteered for this life. For a future free from competition, from struggle, and judgement. For membership in a loving, embracing community that asked in return, only loyalty.

In those early days, I was beguiled by the Favorites in the Great House, the women in his inner circle. A Favorite had been with him when he first saw me. What was it that attracted them? How weak I must have seemed, how vulnerable, in the marketplace among all those strangers.

We went to lunch that day. Then they invited me to their home. I thought they were a couple. Other visits followed. Eventually I stayed overnight and then, one day, I just stayed.

Slowly, more women emerged as part of his family. It seemed so natural. They didn't ask me to join. I wanted to. Finally, I had acceptance, which had eluded me all my life.

Oh, what a high price I have paid for my folly!

Shortly after my meager wealth was transferred I was moved from the Great House to a dormitory. So many dormitories! A colony. Rows of identical, square, buildings. Why had I not seen these before?

Behind a grove and down an incline. A beehive of activity. We raised our own food, each dormitory self sufficient. Every morning buses would drive us to day work at nearby motels, where we cleaned rooms. The managers never acknowledged our presence. And we never saw our pay. That went directly to him.

Escape? How? We were so closely supervised. Perhaps Belinda had escaped. Oh I hope so.

The only women with freedom were the Favorites in the Great House. It was their job to ensnare initiates. They had seduced me, and initiated me into the community, not him.

Several times a year dormitory residents performed service at the Great House. This was his way of keeping tabs, and of enforcing the bond. These brief encounters were our only chance to ingratiate ourselves, to gain favor, and rise in status. Today's encounter had been my chance. Making his sandwich, the perfect sandwich, was my test.

And I failed.

Such a simple thing, was it not? And yet every step, from deciding to spend ten dollars on a loaf of rare bread, to crushing peanuts so the spread would be fresh and free from chemicals, every step was an effort to elevate myself.

The itching had started a couple weeks before, when I learned about my assignment. The itch migrated. From neck, to back, to wrist-- and now my foot. The need to scratch was so great that I might have torn my flesh. But that would have been a mistake, because it was not safe to be unwell in the dormitories.

I had wanted so much to please him. To be affirmed. And how miserably I failed. My one chance.

The itch in my foot was unbearable. But I didn't scratch.

What would happen to me now, that I failed the test? What had happened to Belinda?

I looked at my hand. The sandwich he had spat out, a soggy mush. I closed my fist over it. The spittle-moistened mess oozed through my fingers. What to do with this humiliating indictment?

Don't let anyone see. Shove that sodden glob of bread and peanut butter into my pocket. Put my head down and wait for the order to return to the dormitory.

It was the best I could hope for.

The End?

WeWrite

I owe this story to @owasco, who wrote a provocative prompt. I think I took the piece in a peculiar direction (I hope unexpected), and yet remained true to the prompt. Here's the prompt, as written by the inimitable @owasco:

The Sandwich

"Ugh! The bread is soaking wet! Bread is not supposed to be soaking wet!" he snarled at me as he spit a soggy mouthful of half-chewed peanut butter sandwich into a tissue. I stood at attention next to his bed. He handed the sodden and heavy tissue to me.

He was now vegan, grain free, nightshade free, lectin free, phytic acid free, and deaf to my feeble protestations. He was not free, however, from his acutely tuned palate, which was maddeningly different from mine.

He had requested a peanut butter sandwich. I knew meeting all his new diet criteria would be a bitch, but I rose to the challenge. I had to.

I chose a very small ten dollar loaf of 'bread' and bought it. I bought some raw peanuts. I shelled the peanuts. I soaked, sprouted, and dehydrated the peanuts. After very lightly roasting them, I ground those peanuts into peanut butter. I then very carefully smeared the freshly ground peanut butter onto the somewhat normal looking bread. I made sure to get the peanut butter to the edges just like I had learned in home economics class long, long ago.

I knew how to make a proper tea sandwich.

I now spent my life trying to make this man happy. I signed up for that didn't I? Wasn’t that my reason for being? To make this man happy?

Well, he was not happy with that sandwich.

The illustration is mine and is adapted from a collage/post I wrote some time ago for @shaka's letsmakeacollage contest. I enhanced the picture with some Paint3D elements.

Peanut came from Pixabay

Thank you, @owasco, for inviting me to this WeWrite exercise. Such great writers joined in. I'm going to head over and read their pieces. I recommend everybody do the same. Guaranteed to be entertaining.