The Wounded

“Me,” I said loudly. “You want me.”

That stopped him from walking away. He crouched down and stared into my eyes intensely, as he closed his hands around my arms and squeezed tightly. “You belong to him?” He shook me slightly.

I winced as I nodded. I didn’t like saying anyone owned me but, in this case, it had to be done.

His spry body sprung up in glee. He walked towards the largest tent without looking back.

“Why would you say that?” Joseph said softly, but with so much frustration and exasperation in his voice he may as well have been yelling.

I stared into the center of the camp, my thoughts tipped to wondering what it would be like to live this way. Cooking and cleaning for a husband who fought brutally for everything he wanted. Little bumps rose on my skin as I shivered in fear. What had I done?

“Rosa, answer me.” He elbowed me sharply.

“I could see he wasn’t going to take the bait. I had to offer him something he might want. You’ve seen how he acts around me. It was worth a try.”

Joseph’s arms tightened, and he physically cringed. “What if I lose?”

I strained my hands to the side closest to Joseph, searching for his hand, and managed to hook my finger around his pinky. Sharp zaps of golden electricity traveled up my arm. I looked to Joseph and his faced relaxed a little, the rest of him still wound up tight.

“Just don’t lose,” I whispered.

“You know even if I do, I won’t let them take you.” His words sparked in my heart, but he was wrong. He wouldn’t have a choice.

“You won’t lose,” I answered, even though I wasn’t sure. I was sure, though, that if he lost, I would go. I wouldn’t let them sacrifice their lives for me. There was always more than two answers to a problem. There wouldn’t always be someone to rescue you. I would go, but I wouldn’t stay. I’d find a way out.

Joseph dipped his head, his curls falling over his face, hiding his expression, but I could easily imagine it. His eyes focused, and his thoughts on the task ahead. His a

“Come. Wash. Fight soon. No good to be dirty prize,” she said hurriedly, pulling me by the arm. I gulped. Turning back to look at Joseph, my father, and Rash, all of whose eyes were reaching out to me in worry.

“Ok,” I said to the woman, letting her drag me away from the camp and into the wooded area surrounding it like a cage.

*****

It was just the two of us. She clamped my wrist with an iron grip as she dragged me through the mossy, green undergrowth with one sinewy arm; the other had several layers of clean clothing hanging from it, which I eyed with trepidation. The thick trees reached so high that the sun scattered only small spots of light over the damp ground. The tips of every plant were dipped in ice, like powdered sugar. My eyes glanced over rocks and tree branches that could be used as potential weapons, but something stopped me from grabbing them. She seemed kind compared to the others, and there was no one to go to for help. The Survivors were all spread out across the mountains and plains by now.

We stepped over a disintegrating log and walked down a steep incline to a rock pool with green ferns dribbling over its edges, ice extending each frond. Trickling water hit like crystal over the rocks.

She sat on a smooth, black rock and started removing her shoes.

“Here?” I asked.

She grunted in response, sort of like she was saying, “Duh.”

There was no shyness as she quickly stripped her clothes off and shrank into the water. Her dark, careworn skin looked like it needed the moisture. But she was strong, every old muscle defined and wiry. She dropped below the surface of the water and my thoughts turned to run… run.

I stood to leave, my feet just scraping the edge of the gently lapping pool. Turning, I started to creep.

A hand snapped out of the water and grabbed my ankle, jerking me backwards and pulling my balance away before I could catch it. My arms flailed out in front of me, and my chin knocked on the boulder I’d been sitting on.

I slid down and into the water fully clothed. A hand on my head held me down for longer than I had breath. I fought and scratched until it released me. The woman’s eyes were fierce as they glared, dark and penetrating like light glancing off a shiny, black rock.

“Wash,” she said cuttingly, her thin, dark lips pulled back into a growl. Her grainy teeth sharpened in the corners into fangs.

I gasped, coughing, as she pulled my clothes from me like she was stripping the fur from an animal until I was naked and exposed in front of her. She eyed me critically and clicked her tongue in what looked like disappointment. I brought my arms up to cover my bare chest as she turned and left the pool. She threw a cloth at me and began to dress.

“Wash!” she snapped more aggressively, sitting down on a rock to watch me.

A tear slid gently from one corner of my eye. I felt exposed, inadequate, and vulnerable as the woman sneered at me hatefully. I understood now. There was no kindness. This was just what was expected of her and me. My fear grew large like a pulsing wound in my throat. I might have to live this way. Would they hold me down and sharpen my teeth with a file while I screamed and thrashed?

I washed carefully, shivering uncontrollably from the cold, tiny droplets beading and driving down my face, mixing with tears.

I dunked my hair in and gave it the best rinse I could, squeezing out the ends while my limbs pulsed and jerked from the chill.

I crept out of the mirror-like pool, shaking from embarrassment as much as the cold, and put the heavy layers of fabric on my body. A scratchy shirt, a long, dark skirt, and a bodice the woman pulled tight around my middle that was decorated with colorful beads and embroidery. At least she let me keep my underwear.

When I was done, she slammed me down on a rock next to her by pushing my shaking shoulders. She turned my back to her, and I didn’t fight. I shook and whimpered, scared of the choice I’d made. She gently pulled her hands through my hair, teasing out the tangles. The knot in my chest wound tighter. This moment was tarnishing memories of Clara, and I hated the woman for it.

She faced me and rubbed pink powder on my cheeks and over my eyelids. She ran a crusty, old lipstick over my lips that tasted like wax and old lady. I grimaced and she grabbed my face roughly, squeezing my lips together into a pout.

When we were done, she clamped both my hands together and tied them with a bright, nylon cord produced from her bag.

She shoved me in the back. “Walk.”

I glared at her.

I should have hit her with a rock when I’d had the chance.

How do you win? Is it strength? Is it strategy? Or is it your hardness, your willingness to break someone into pieces without caring? Please let it not be that.

I’d been moved to the other side of the camp and tied to a post with two horses behind me. Joseph’s eyes were just pricks of green from this distance, but I knew he was thinking about me, thinking about how we could get out of this.

Two women marked out the fight space, the same routine of sweeping and shifting the stones until they marked out a perfect circle.