A Surmaid's Tale
I am hoping with every fiber of my being that it does not happen again.
I am lying on a rigid white mattress of the sanatorium's bed. The mattress— that sits upon an oblong metallic stand—was once used by chronically ill patients, victims of the war, and by little innocent children. Women used to be rushed in here, 'labor' they used to call it. That doesn't happen anymore.
The only thing I can see is the old graying ceiling above me. I do not look around; I do not turn my head to my sides. I do not do anything that a china doll cannot do.
My name is Ofalcott.
I dare not call it mine. It does not belong to me. I mouth my old name. The feeling of it is so foreign to my lips. I sound it out lightly, train my lips to the unfamiliar syllables. When the inaudible whisper reaches my ears, it sends a chill down my spine.
I ruthlessly shut my eyes and breathe the cold, dreary air that floats about me.
I have tabooed. I have uttered a name that does not belong to me.
The wooden door creaks open and all of a sudden I am aware of the other figure. I am afraid. This is my last test. This is my last chance. I am hoping that I will get the good news today; I can feel it.
But of course, I am lying to myself. I just do not want to face the inevitable.
The healer walks towards the foot of the bed. "How we feeling about this month," he says. I do not answer; we both know it's a statement.
The healer takes out his wand. I stare at it; its smooth oak surface, its vibrant ocher exterior, I envy the power it shields and hides from unknowing eyes. I envy the power the healer hold, the power that once belonged to me.
The healer then proceeds to lift up my gown; the red cloth is hitched all the way up to my waist. The healer holds the wand over my stomach. I can feel my stomach churn as he mutters a spell. My heartbeat reaches epidemic proportions.
If it's happened, the wand will illuminate in an ashen color. It will sense another aura.
The aura of the unborn.
I look down with anticipation; but reality is catching up with me. The wand does not glow. I look at the healer; he does not look towards me. He feels bad for me. I feel bad for myself.
He pulls the layers of my gown back, and the material falls down to my ankles. I sit up on the bed and place my shaking hands upon my lap. I am not allowed to look at the healer.
The healer proceeds to open the door and I can hear my tutelary walk in. They speak.
"Nothing," says the healer.
"Then I shall take her back to the house, master," he states almost in a subdued whisper. The healer is higher than my tutelary. My tutelary cannot speak above him.
"Not now," the healer responds in a gruff manner, "I want to make sure she is even viable. The next will be her last, according to her parchment."
The words reach my ears, and I am terrified. I do not move from my position as it would be highly suspicious.
"Of course, Sire." I hear my tutelary say quietly. He is happy to hear this. He is happy to hear the news that I will be incarcerated to the deepest depths of Hell.
I know this. He does not speak to me, but on occasion when I walk by, he will spit in my direction. He shows his hatred towards me in subtle ways, subtle inconspicuous ways that no one would be able to pick upon. When we are alone, he will mutter to himself. He calls me a bitch, he tells me I have ruined his life, he says he is going to kill me one of these days. But he doesn't say it to me. He says it to himself. Under his breath. Yet, all the while I can hear him.
Of all the things he says, one is the worst.
He calls me a mudblood.
That is when my breath hitches and my heartbeat races.
But it is not because of what foul word he calls me. It is because I realize he knows who I am. He sees through my disguise.
I am incognito. I cannot risk such a mistake.
But that is only one of the two things I suspect. The other is more blatant, the other reason he calls me a mudblood is because he hates me to the point where he would risk muttering that word.
That is why I always make sure to be extra cautious around him. Making sure I do not slip. Making sure I always look down when I walk and never look up to meet his accusing tawny eyes.
The door closes behind him. My hands move ever so subtly.
I am only valued if my ovaries are viable.
I am a surmaid.
And this is my tale.
Author's Note----Disclaimers and all that good stuff: Based on Harry Potter © Joanne Rowling—lovely, brilliant! Loosely based upon a fabulous book entitled "The Handmaid's Tale" by Margaret Atwood, symbolism (such as the color red), and aspects are used (women used as objects). I'm pimping MA, because she totally needs to be pimped! She seriously rocks.