Skin & Bone

The sun was yellow once, so the old ones had said. She no longer believes that. Murky brown at best, boiling muddy pools, rank. Smoke sears her lungs, the stench of charred flesh seeps through the sooty scarf shielding her face. She cannot last long out here. She bows her head against the wall of heat, shoulders set in survival, steps left, steps right.

She looks old now; wizened crone, as dry and brittle as the scorched land not even tears moisten her scratchy eyes skulking over sallow cheeks. The walled compound is within sight.

Silently she joins the short line of the bowed and cowed, servants to the Singulars, awaiting entry. The Guardians watch the scanners but make no contact with those entering. They talk of the approaching lottery draw, the quarterly bonus for loyalty. Their eyes burn bright in anticipation, famished for flesh and fantasy. Through the gates she makes her way down the tunnel, gratefully removing the scarf, eagerly gulping the fresh air.

Once in the Dome, she makes her way to the marketplace.

In the artificial atmosphere of the Conservatory the Singulars gather in small groups, sipping chai lattes, consulting their biofeedback devices, and comparing cryptocurrency performance. The temperature is a constantly refreshing cool.

She walks by unnoticed and enters the Agridome. Removing her cloak, worn dress and shabby shoes she enters the sanitizer and after being dried in the air chamber she dons the orange coverall and sneakers that signify service. Collecting a basket, she enters the aisle of raised beds and sinks her hands into the cool moist earth to uproot the dark, leafy greens. She inhales life and a sigh shudders through her.

She can see it now, the yellow sun shining in a blue sky on fields of green, long grass rippling in a soft sea breeze. Paradise. That is what her grandmother had spoken of, momentarily lost in the memory, faded eyes briefly brightening and a smile, sudden and unsustainable. She herself does not remember.

“Keep moving in aisle one” the loudspeaker booms metallically. Aroused from the brief reverie, she plucks richly red tomatoes from the vine, selects a pale head of celery, and snips a medley of herbs.

Salad fixings gathered she heads for the butcher’s store. The cuts of flesh range from palest of pinks to ruby and garnet, some marbled richly with opalescent cream. They are labelled according to age; yearling to prime, thighs, breasts, rumps, fillet, and there are kidneys, liver, even brains, eyes, ovaries, and testicles. She chooses their favorites and passing through the scanner at the exit carries the purchases to the apartment building and enters the gated courtyard.

They are amongst the elite of the Singulars, her masters. They live well and enjoy their luxuries unconsciously. They were raised in power and privilege. It is their birthright. The order of things in the world does not cause them concern. Life, or the lack of it, outside the Dome, is of no interest. All is as it should be.

Placing the provisions in the minimalist kitchen, she gathers what she needs to clean the bathroom and make the beds, after setting the robotic vacuum to work in the living area. They prefer their tiles scrubbed by hand, and believe it is worthy toil for a Multiple, such as she, and it is important to provide for those who service the Dome.

After cleaning she prepares the dining room and reception area for their guests that night, according to their instructions. They will have waitstaff, younger than her, more attractive to look at, brought in from the Fetchings.

Later that evening, as she tidies the kitchen, she catches a glimpse of a golden heart-shaped locket around the neck of one of the young women from the Fetchings. The marquisites that form the inlaid heart within a heart reflect a spectrum of light briefly on the white wall before it slips back beneath her shirt. A stab in her heart, a twisting in her gut, a sudden fluttering of her bowels, but she steadies herself. It was her grandmother’s locket. She is certain, she remembers fingering the slight depression where one of the marquisites was missing on the left, sitting just over the heart beating in the wearer’s chest. She glances sharply at the girl; pretty, long hair, vacant eyes. She turns back to loading the dishwasher.

Later still, with her carefully wrapped parcel of food and bottle of water, her wages for the day, she returns to the Agridome and exchanges her orange uniform for the dusty, smoky, drab clothes she arrived in and makes her way out of the dome through the tunnel and back into the choking heat. It is night. There are no stars, no visible moon. She knows the way well and hastens into the thick, acrid air.

The Furnaces are blazing, rendering bones, connective tissue, and fluids. She is grateful she is not working there. No-one lasts long in that place.

She reaches the walls of her compound. No Guardians here; they must fend for themselves., the old ones reserved for servitude. There are no windows, no courtyards, or cafes, just a concrete block of utilitarian rooms with an air filtering system that cools and cleans just enough for life. She unlocks the padlock on her drab door.

She settles into her chair and eats the food she brought with her straight from the parcel. She has no way to chill or heat it, no plates, nor cutlery. After she has eaten, tired and with a full stomach, she strays to the verge of sleep in the airless room. The image of the locket flashes before her and she falls into a memory.

On the day of the Lottery, many quarters back, she is at work in The Nursery, tending to the young, the offspring of the Singulars and the Fetchings who are communally housed there until selected. The numbered wristband she wears starts to flash. Heart racing, face drained of blood, whole body trembling, she reports to the Office. A Guardian stands before her. I have drawn your number he tells her. She hands in her Nursery pass and leaves with the Guardian.

After he has finished having sex with her, he gets to decide; will she go to the Fetchings or the Furnace? This is his reward for loyalty to the Singulars. Such power, briefly bewitching for one so subjugated. She does her best to beguile him and feigns rhapsody not received as he penetrates her. He enjoys the surge of power and the fear he can smell on her, so he chooses the Furnace. But what if I can get you something that will capture the interest of one of the Fetchings she says? What if then you could have sex more often, like a Singular? Would that not be a better deal then sending me to my death in the Furnace? He pondered that, as she worked her hand slowly up and down his penis. Perhaps he said, but if I send you to the Furnace, I get your entire carcass allocated to me after you have served your time there. But she said, if I went to the Fetchings I get allocated the fattened meat from the Nursery Factory to keep me healthy and attractive for the Singulars and Guardians like you and I could give you some of my allowance.

All night she bargains…as thousands before her since the time of Scheherazade. In the early morning she goes to the compound where her grandmother lives. She uses her key to enter the room. Without waking her grandmother, she quietly finds the little box, once vibrant velvet, now mostly bare, and takes the gold heart-shaped locket from it. She returns to the Guardian who awaits.

Nearly asleep now, she remembers, how one day a Fetching returned from duty wearing her grandmother’s locket. The girl was enchanted by it – and rather liked the Guardian who had given it to her; he seemed healthier, more handsome than most.

She remembers too her escape from the Fetchings, when she simply could not tolerate any more the violation of her body, no more hands, no more slathering tongues, no more penises, flaccid or turgid, no more. Violation begets violence.

Yawning, she stirs and rises from the chair. She takes off her dress and then slowly undoes the fine stitching around her ears and down the length of her arms, fingers, chest, stomach, thighs and feet, peeling off the loose folds. She tenderly strokes her still young and supple self, stretching, unencumbered, partially free. Ready for bed, she hangs the skin suit on a hook on the wall.

It was her grandmother’s.