on to do so much.
I tried to be happy about that fact, but I couldn’t help but realize that I had a whole life in front of me as well. A life of loneliness and humiliation. It washed over me all at once, and I tried to stay strong. I squeezed my eyes shut against the tears and tried to pretend I was just going to sleep, blocking out the dim light from the hallway. I got exactly what I wanted, I had just never considered the consequences.
Chapter 6
Training
I’ve only had the training materials for a few days when my master breaks his usual pattern of ignoring me and stops by my room.
“Show me what you’ve learned,” he orders, standing there expectantly.
I stare at him, silent and confused.
“That was an order, as if it wasn’t entirely clear,” he says, curt and cold. I tremble.
Slowly, I stand, unable to take my eyes off of him. I know it won’t stop him from hurting me if he wants to, but at least I’ll be able to see it coming. He doesn’t move, though, and after a moment, I try to focus on what I’ve read in the training manuals. It’s easy to forget, when I’m alone, when there aren’t many demands placed on me. But when my master speaks to me, when he makes demands, I realize how lost I am. Every interaction is a terrifying challenge, as is figuring out when to walk and when to sit and where. I used to take all this for granted, but now it just leaves me terrified.
“You did fine at the Peace Day Celebration,” he reminds me. “But I don’t want you clinging to me at the next event we attend. That sort of show only works once without raising questions. Show me that you can pull off an event where there’s more than a few inches between us without looking like a kicked dog.”
I turn away from him and close my eyes, trying to recall the positions and movements I read about in the training manuals, and I pretend I’m just practicing by myself as I demonstrate them for him. I show him how I can walk, the smooth, graceful, restrained gait that is valued above regular walking. I kneel for him, in a variety of positions, demonstrating how I would wait, unobtrusive, or how I would sink low to the ground, begging forgiveness.
The training manuals explained it in so much detail, telling me how and when I should move, and speak, and laugh. It’s not how I would have moved before. At least, I think it isn’t. I wonder if I could even step back into my old life now if it was an option. I throw myself into moving like a slave with the same enthusiasm as most people studied for the Assessment. I’ve studied the positions for days, tried them out on my own even, because I want to look right. I want to say the key phrases that all good slaves should say. I want to succeed, just this once, and I want him to keep me.
I show him how I can crouch low to pick up a fallen item, ensuring that I present myself properly, in a pleasing manner, even when it’s not quite functional. I do all the things that slaves do that nobody really notices, but that take practice and work, anyway. I show him everything I can think of, and when I’ve exhausted myself, I go to my knees next to him again, and my heart soars when he nods at me.
“You could use some practice so you aren’t so stiff, but you’ve come a long way on your own,” he tells me. “We’ll work on postures and positions for a while, and then you can continue on your own.”
I try not to draw away as he walks toward me, but his face doesn’t give me any indication that he notices. Then again, he seems to notice everything else, so maybe he’s just letting this slip.
He guides me through some positions, referring to them by name or reason to assume them, and when I move, he watches carefully, guiding me into more proper stances. I have no idea how he knows so much about slaves, but he does, and he points out little corrections here and there that I need to change.
“Put your hands a little higher,” he orders, and I tentatively raise my
I tried to be happy about that fact, but I couldn’t help but realize that I had a whole life in front of me as well. A life of loneliness and humiliation. It washed over me all at once, and I tried to stay strong. I squeezed my eyes shut against the tears and tried to pretend I was just going to sleep, blocking out the dim light from the hallway. I got exactly what I wanted, I had just never considered the consequences.
Chapter 6
Training
I’ve only had the training materials for a few days when my master breaks his usual pattern of ignoring me and stops by my room.
“Show me what you’ve learned,” he orders, standing there expectantly.
I stare at him, silent and confused.
“That was an order, as if it wasn’t entirely clear,” he says, curt and cold. I tremble.
Slowly, I stand, unable to take my eyes off of him. I know it won’t stop him from hurting me if he wants to, but at least I’ll be able to see it coming. He doesn’t move, though, and after a moment, I try to focus on what I’ve read in the training manuals. It’s easy to forget, when I’m alone, when there aren’t many demands placed on me. But when my master speaks to me, when he makes demands, I realize how lost I am. Every interaction is a terrifying challenge, as is figuring out when to walk and when to sit and where. I used to take all this for granted, but now it just leaves me terrified.
“You did fine at the Peace Day Celebration,” he reminds me. “But I don’t want you clinging to me at the next event we attend. That sort of show only works once without raising questions. Show me that you can pull off an event where there’s more than a few inches between us without looking like a kicked dog.”
I turn away from him and close my eyes, trying to recall the positions and movements I read about in the training manuals, and I pretend I’m just practicing by myself as I demonstrate them for him. I show him how I can walk, the smooth, graceful, restrained gait that is valued above regular walking. I kneel for him, in a variety of positions, demonstrating how I would wait, unobtrusive, or how I would sink low to the ground, begging forgiveness.
The training manuals explained it in so much detail, telling me how and when I should move, and speak, and laugh. It’s not how I would have moved before. At least, I think it isn’t. I wonder if I could even step back into my old life now if it was an option. I throw myself into moving like a slave with the same enthusiasm as most people studied for the Assessment. I’ve studied the positions for days, tried them out on my own even, because I want to look right. I want to say the key phrases that all good slaves should say. I want to succeed, just this once, and I want him to keep me.
I show him how I can crouch low to pick up a fallen item, ensuring that I present myself properly, in a pleasing manner, even when it’s not quite functional. I do all the things that slaves do that nobody really notices, but that take practice and work, anyway. I show him everything I can think of, and when I’ve exhausted myself, I go to my knees next to him again, and my heart soars when he nods at me.
“You could use some practice so you aren’t so stiff, but you’ve come a long way on your own,” he tells me. “We’ll work on postures and positions for a while, and then you can continue on your own.”
I try not to draw away as he walks toward me, but his face doesn’t give me any indication that he notices. Then again, he seems to notice everything else, so maybe he’s just letting this slip.
He guides me through some positions, referring to them by name or reason to assume them, and when I move, he watches carefully, guiding me into more proper stances. I have no idea how he knows so much about slaves, but he does, and he points out little corrections here and there that I need to change.
“Put your hands a little higher,” he orders, and I tentatively raise my
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