For Schermionie's 5, 10, 20, 50, 70, 100 Fandoms Challenge.
Respect the handmaids, they told me.
Ha! She's a whore—nothing more. And yet she demands respect? Have times changed so much that we now respect those who can do nothing but spread her legs for others' husbands?
She pretends to be indifferent. She pretends not to enjoy it, but I know better. I hold her hands, you see. I can feel her pulse rise and am close enough to hear her breathing hitch. I've felt my husband in the same way she has. I know it's an enjoyable experience.
She likes it. She likes being taken by my husband. Even when he's done, she doesn't close her legs. A proper whore, she is.
I don't see anything respectful in that.
You're not to a lay a hand on the handmaids, they told me.
As if she's worth it. As if I'm jealous. As if it would make a difference. As if I'd have no right.
She sleeps with my husband more than I do. Why shouldn't I smack her across the face? My husband, I'm sure, thinks about her when he ought to be thinking of me. Why shouldn't I hurt her... just a little bit? And if her belly should begin to swell with a child not rightfully hers, why shouldn't I take a knitting needle and take away what, in a kinder world, would be mine?
You won't even notice they're there, they told me.
But how could I not? She's there, taboo, when there's silence between us. She's there, right in the middle, where I can see the distance between us growing. I can feel her in every room. I can sense her presence in his thoughts.
Her stench. It's everywhere.
We need them to survive, they told me.
How marvellous. I used to be a star, you know. Men used to fall at my feet and women prayed in hopes of being me. People used to worship my name. And look at me now—relying on whores.
Oh, I understand it well enough. Without them, children would be a distant memory. Without them, society would age and wither away. Without them, the human race would die out.
So, it's true. I understand. We do rely on them. We do need them to survive. But even so, they're nothing but whores! How is it we've come to rely on what may as well be the dirt beneath our feet?
Indeed, how the mighty have fallen.
Respect the handmaids, they told me.
Respect her. Give her a room in my home. Sit idly by as she consumes my husband's thoughts. Ignore the closed doors and pretend not to notice the hand creams he tries so desperately to hide. Act as if I care. Act as if I don't.
There's no one who understands. The other Wives, perhaps, but they don't speak about such matters, although I know that, they, like I, yearn to. We could yell "He's mine!" in our loudest whisper. We could share our deepest fantasies... how we long to them drag them from our homes by their hair. How easy it would be to replace the old chandelier and leave them to themselves. How we'd rejoice to see each and every one of them with a noose around their neck and dangling from the Wall.
...but that's simply a 'could'. We could, but we wouldn't. It would be weak. After all, what true woman would be so self-doubting that she lets a single whore control her every thought? A pathetic one, I'm sure.
I could speak to my husband. He wouldn't turn me away. He loves me. But if I spoke to my husband—if I pulled him from her world to mine—I know what he'd reply.
Respect the handmaids, he'd tell me.