Throne by Phil Tucker Page A

turned to work. That was how she had been able to plug away for so many months at such horrible jobs. As her situation grew worse she worked harder. Always her attitude had been to succeed, to make money so as to save money, to work harder until she had enough to disappear. The more miserable she became, the more important it was to punch through the frailties and vicissitudes of life through sheer sweat and will.
    The light was perfect, a piercing illumination. The workspace became her world, the other women fading into the background as she pulled out the first length of black leather that would become her belt. Stitches, awl, the metallic components of the buckle imported from China, the label that had to be stitched in, all assembled before her, ready for construction.
    A deep breath, and then she dove in. The sewing machine began to chatter, its machinery spinning and whirring and acting according to her desires. The black leather was fed beneath its blurring nib, its darting beak of undeniable sharpness. Her hands were not her own. They moved with devastating alacrity. If she could not dominate the world outside, or her own fate, or even her own body, if she were to lose control of her voice, if she were eventually to be given to the tasting and sampling of gross men, then at least here she could prove herself a master of something. No matter that the job was mean, that the pay was absurd, that the competition was overwhelming, that there was no chance of recompense or recognition for her achievements. She was her own audience, her own judge, and for the sake of her own pride she focused her attention into a narrow laser beam and worked.
    Time passed. Her hands flowed. Leather was fed beneath the dancing nib of the sewing machine, its chatter and clamor endless. Labels were sewn in with terrible precision. Each and every one finding its perfect place. Metallic buckles were assembled, tongues and lathes and frames placed within the double backed leather belt ends, then sewed and closed shut. Over and over and over and over again.
    She sewed and thought not of the fact that she would have no day job. She sewed and ignored the fact that she was alone, that there was nobody there who loved her, who cared for her, who wandered how she was. Sometimes she even forgot her parents, her dreams. Her pain, her loneliness. She buried it all in the deft hummingbird movements of her hands. She wouldn’t think about what had happened tonight, the man with the smile, the man in green, the press of his lips against hers, waking up on the ground soaked and mute. She wouldn’t think about the loss of her voice. She wouldn’t think about the loss of her voice. She would not.
    Time passed. Over and over again she repeated the same movements. Stillness about her. The sense of people watching. Voices. She blocked them out. Leather fed like a snake into a hole. Metal hoops latched in. Her box emptying, somebody refilling it, emptying again, and again, and again. Belts set aside, completed, stitched shut, ready to be boxed and sent out into the city. The quality of light changing. The dull shimmer of fluorescent light slowly augmented by something clearer, diffuse, coming in from the next room. Morning light.
    One more belt. Just one more. The sewing machine scalding hot to the touch. Her fingertips raw, nearly bleeding. Eyes sore, straining. What time was it? How long had she been working? Finally, she set the last belt aside, sat back, her back one long score of knotted whorls of bone and muscle. Peripheral vision returning. She’d never gone so deep, been so focused on her task. People were in the room with her, watching. She turned her head. Looked at them.
    Jose, eyes wide, mouth a narrow line. The other women, hands idle, simply staring at her. People crowded in the doorway. Maya felt her heart rate begin to beat, to pick up. What were they staring at? She tensed to rise from her seat, but instead simply skittered her gaze from one to