The Devoted

You can’t stop thinking about her. She is your everything. She is the reason you get up in the morning, the strength that pushes you through the grueling days, the last whisper on your lips before sleep comes at night. Intense feelings flood your system as you think of her, over and over, endlessly. You can’t help yourself. It’s as compulsive as the tongue that runs itself over the gaping hole where a tooth used to be. You yourself are down a couple of teeth these days, god, the front ones too. Thankfully she doesn’t care a thing about that, nor about the fact that you’ve lost considerable weight since the Beforetimes. You chuckle lightly to yourself. You’re not the man you used to be, that’s for sure... No, not exactly the picture of virility and good health. You can’t help but smile and shake your head, reminiscing. As you lose yourself in your thoughts of the Beforetimes and of her, the pleasure and pain and nostalgia all intertwining, your hands dig. You’re glad to have a task to do, something to occupy your days. The manual labor feels good. It reminds you that you’re alive. Your life has a purpose. She gives you purpose. The gratitude sticks in your throat.

You stop cold when your fingers touch something hard and smooth beneath the soil. Your heart quickens. You grasp the small object and pull; there's resistance. Eagerly you begin to clear away the dirt and pebbles. When you see it, you gasp at its unexpected gold shine. You’ve unearthed a heart. You haven’t seen one of these things since you were a child. You rack your brain… What is this called? Starts with an L… locker… lockey... locket? Yes, you think it was called a locket. You can’t help but snort at the absurdness of the word, so beyond the scope of your small rotation of mostly monosyllabic words. Locket. Lock-et. You whisper it, trying it on for size. The sounds feel bulky and foreign in your mouth, but you suppose most words would now.

The gold heart is attached to a thin gold chain, which is stuck on something beneath the surface. You use your fingers to gently dig around it, trying to dislodge the chain enough to pull it free. As you work, the significance of your discovery dawns on you. This can be a gift. A gift for her. You feel a surge of euphoria run through you, a giddiness pulsating behind your eyes. How wonderful this day has turned out to be! Here you thought the day would be miserable, because you usually dislike the digging of graves. But, now, thank god for the digging! Without it you would’ve missed this buried treasure entirely.

You manage to pull the necklace free from the earth. You hold it up and admire it at its full length. The chain is delicate and the heart swings and sways languidly, glistening in the sunlight as it softly rotates. Glorious. She will love it. Absorbed in your admiration, you don’t even register the faint clanking of the chains as you raise your arms to the sky. Nor do you notice the changes of the men around you, who have started up with inquiring grunts and curious eyes. It’s not until you hear the siren, a low wail as deeply familiar -- and pleasurable -- as the feeling of your cock in your hand, that you snap back into the present moment. You look up, in unison with the heads of your companions. The workday is over and that means she is coming. The Matrons around you begin shouting orders to stand, flicking their crop whips to stir the men into movement. You hastily struggle to standing. Your back, painfully petrified after hours of hunched labor, cracks in protest as you straighten. Stiffly, you turn to look to the opposite end of the field, past the endless rows of men just like you. There, atop the watchtower, Mother appears. As regal and as beautiful as a queen. You eagerly join in on the jubilant cheers and claps, the sea of iron chains rattling and clanging noisily in the din. She begins her usual speech, which you never tire of hearing. Every time she hits upon the familiar keywords you cheer in agreement. The benevolence of the Matriarchy, yes! The evils of the Beforetimes, yes! The wretchedness of men, yes! You reach an almost orgasmic rapture when she finally reminds you that only the Devoted will achieve atonement. Yes! You are the Devoted.

Lost in your fervor, eyes blurred with fatigue, you don't even register the day's Undevoted as they are marched across the tower and unceremoniously pushed off it. Only vaguely do you note their bodies swinging, so tiny and faraway they are. Their swaying motion reminds you of the precious gift now in your possession, and suddenly the gratitude returns, swelling up from your throat and flushing your face. Your eyes, now blurry with tears, take in the figure of the woman who has become everything to you. She is your everything. She is the reason you get up in the morning, the strength that pushes you through the grueling days, the last whisper on your lips before sleep comes at night. God, you think fervidly as the lash of a whip licks at your legs and you begin to move, I love you so much.