The Slave

It’s so early that the morning dew is still collecting on the leaves outside. The crickets sing the last song of their ballad before the roosters begin theirs. The moon is doing its final stretches and the sun hasn’t even yawned yet but he’s here. He’s here putting those filthy fingers on my body. Touching and slithering across my skin, it’s enough to make me vomit. He hasn’t even brushed his teeth yet for God’s sake. He used me all night til he could barely keep his eyes open. That doesn’t matter though, I knew he would be back. This is nothing new. It’s the start of my every day, this is the routine of my life.

It’s Monday, a work day, so I hope there will be some break in my assault at some point but for now I just grin and bear it. It’s not like I have a choice anyway. Everyday I pray to end my torment, to end this onslaught of groping and molestation. And everyday my prayers go unanswered and my harassment continues. For two years, my silent screams, dry tears, lifeless skin are all products of daily torture. I’d like to say I’ve grown used to it, but I would be lying.

I don’t know when all of this began but I swear I was born into this life. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know the touch of someone else against my skin. It’s all I’ve ever known, and all I’ve ever loathed. I long for the day he returns me to the traffickers and takes interest in a newer girl. It sounds awful but I know they will market her up like they did me all those years ago. Claimed I was better than the last girl, but in reality he was just trading entertainment. I didn’t see it then but there was a silent vocalization of pure relief on her face when he casted her aside and ripped me out of my clothes. I hate to think of trading places with someone new and unsuspecting but I can’t go on like this.

The morning continues, and he’s finally entered the shower to wash some of the filth from his body. He’s in a good mood humming a tune I’ve heard him sing before. It’s a snazzy little number, very catchy but very short. Soon the water stops, I sit perfectly still, as quiet as a mouse hoping I go unnoticed. But maybe I’m breathing too loud because he turns to me and asks if I have said anything. “No, I haven’t said anything master.” I say softly. He comes to check anyway. Those brown eyes of his sparkle with lust when he makes contact with my body. Meanwhile mine glaze with tears from his touch. His fingers feel like Brillo pads against my smooth skin and I shutter with each passing second. “Please go to work! You’re going to be late!” I scream hoping I can pull him away from his carnal desires. But he loses all sense of time when looking into my eyes. I can watch responsibilities and the rest of the world drift from his consciousness when he’s with me. Like a moth to a flame he is drawn to my body. Sleek and slender by design, my body is my curse. I accept the fault for being an object of desire, but oh how I long to be ignored…

Three times our lives are jeopardized because his hand slides up my skirt while driving to work. Three times I beg him to stop and three times I’m ignored. Finally at work I get a few hours of peace, if I can call it that. Each passing minute is just a moment I spend wondering is this when he’ll come back? It’s like I feel his eyes crawling on my skin at all times. Coffee breaks, lunch breaks, and even a moment’s spare time, I feel his yearning for me. It won’t be long before he’s back in my flesh, reigniting my misery. I wonder in these moments does he feel my agony? Does he feel what my body endures? Does it even matter? Foolish girl! Of course not, he doesn’t care about me! I’m nothing but an expensive toy to him! I fell once, and it was the only time I knew something remotely close to care from him. He was so gentle, checking my entire body from head to toe for scrapes and bruises. I could see the concern and worry in his eyes. It was the first time I saw something humane from him, it was also the last time. As soon as it was determined that I was unscathed, I was made to please him once more.

Back at home he sits beside me on the sofa. The large sectional offers little distance between us to keep his hands off me. The further I scoot away the closer he pulls me to him. The tv blares with the latest action flick he’s been dying to watch but his eyes are fixated on me. “I love you…” he whispers and I’m speechless, frozen in shock. Truth is I despise him, but it isn’t until this moment that I realize something. I pity him. Here and now I realize the addiction in his heart. I recognize the suffrage he endures. He is just as much a slave to me as I am to him. He is shackled to my screen, tied down to my bells and whistles and imprisoned by my apps. With every swipe of his finger he can’t help but fall further and further away from freedom. Now instead of conversation there is a constant need to ask for the WiFi password. Now instead of peaceful silence there’s a phantom vibration he feels when I haven’t moved an inch. Now there is a panic to find a charger when my battery runs low yet I beg him to let me die. Now I consume so much of his life that a day without me feels impossible. As a cell phone I am designed to be his slave but in truth, when phones were anchored human beings were free…

-End