Morning comes, and there's nothing good about it. I spent what little time I had waiting up for Offred, tossing and turning. Now, I stretch out with a groan, my body aching from more than just the restless night. The weight of everything—the secrets, the lies, the helplessness—is making me sore. Usually, I'd join Rita for breakfast, but I'm not sure I've got the energy to face her today. And to top it off, my coffee rations are used up until Friday, which just makes my head throb. I settle on nicotine instead of food.
I throw on my uniform and head outside. The morning air is damp, clinging to me as I take my usual spot at the top of the steps to my little apartment. I light a cigarette, the flare of the lighter casting brief warmth against my fingers. The first drag hits hard, and I let the smoke settle deep in my lungs, hoping it'll chase away the exhaustion. My head begins to clear. With each new intake of smoke, the beating at the base of my skull from my lack of caffeine dulls slightly. As I enjoy my mild depressant, my eyes drift up to the handmaid third-story windows. It's open, the curtains stiring on the breeze, but that is where the signs of life stop. My mind drifts to last night, and I can't stop the images from flooding in. I hate myself for not doing something-anything, but what could I have done? I'm just as trapped as she is, and my unquiesce sickens me. I swallow back a gag and put out my cigarette. My thoughts are dark and sinister when I think of the Commander's perverse behaviors, and worry settles into my stomach, turning it upside down.
I grant myself one last look up at the vacant window before standing and heading back inside for a brush and shave. Today's schedule is booked. Mr. Waterford needs dropped off at 9 am and then I need to book it across town for a meeting with Commander Pryce. After that, I'm back home to do some fall tree timing before heading off again in the early evening to collect the Commander. I pull on a tie, then head out to get the car ready, but I spot Mr. Waterford already standing in the driveway. "Sorry to keep you waiting, sir," I offer apologetically.
He shakes his head and takes in a deep breath. Unlike me, he seems very well-rested. Shit.
"Not at all! I was taking in this glorious morning."
"Yes, we've been sent great weather this week," I return, opening the garage door. Waterford surprises me and follows me in instead of waiting for me to pull the car out. With him deposited in the back seat, we are off on our oh-so-very long three-block trek to the Council building. And to think one of his key successes was reducing emissions. It wasn't hard to do. They just took all the cars away from regular people. Unless you are in power or a delivery person, you hoof it or take public transport.
At a stop sign, I caution a look in the rearview mirror. I wish I hadn't. He's smiling. Fred's smile is sickening like he's proud of himself for whatever went down last night. I hate him a little more with every smug grin he throws my way. My heart sinks a bit. Sorry, Offred, I really am.
While this super short drive is stupid, I am glad that it means I won't have to spend the day listening to the self-involved blowhard. Within moments, we arrive, and I deposit the man per my assignment. Once Fred disappears through the front doors, I quickly get back into the car and head out to meet Pryce. The man I'm meeting is not technically any better than other Commanders here in Gilead, but he is more up-front about who he is, and he's somehow retained the tiniest bit of humanity. It's not much, but at least he's truly pious and not just faking it like everyone else. I'm not deluded, my bar is low, but I guess that is to be expected, I'm an Eye after all. Eyes aren't known for their independent thinking skills or operating on moral high ground.
I pull the Waterford's Benz next to its exact double on the dock and get out. Commander Pryce leans against the hood of his car, smoking a cigar.
"Blessed day," I greet.
He turns towards me and nods. I join him, pulling out a smoke of my own.
"So, how do you find the Waterfords these days?" he finally asks after a minute of silence.
He knows the answer I'm going to give; it was in my report. These in-person clandestine meetings are only meant to support the Eyes in the field. Pryce watches me closely, as if every word out of my mouth is being weighed, tested. I know the game. I've been an excellent liar since age 14. Show them what they want to see, give them nothing else.
"About the same. He's still visiting Jezebel's a few times a month and using the black market items I smuggle in for him as bribes," I say, smoke coming out my nose as I speak.
"Anything of note about the bribes?" he asks, looking me up and down.
I shake my head and look out over the bay. "No. Just making sure that Mitchell, Kent, and O'Brien continue to vote for his proposals."
Pryce snorts at this. "Not a single independent thought amongst the three of them; they deserve to be played," he chuckles. "Fred's proposals are small and ineffective right now. Keep me informed if he starts steering off course. We can't have a repeat of last winter's debacle."
Ah, yes, the whole St Andrew's nightmare. I wouldn't have ever labeled Fred Waterford sentimental, and I certainly didn't take him as a church-going man, like... ever... in his whole life. I figure him for a do-as-I-say kind of Commander, but when the Council decided to tear down St. Andrew's, the last catholic church in town, Fred got a wild hair up his butt and managed to block the whole project for three months with environmental impact statements and such. His granddad took him there at Christmas time when he was a kid, and he didn't want to let it go. I find it funny that he thought he was important enough to block the ruling of high command in DC. He's a narcissistic fool.
"I don't see him stirring anything up any time soon…he has plenty to occupy him these days," I say, having to hide the sigh I feel building in my chest.
"I have an Ofglen update. She was detained yesterday evening. She's been having an affair with a Martha from her last posting," Pyrce states, the sweet smell of cigar smoke swirling around him.
I knew this was coming, but that doesn't make it any easier to swallow. Ofglen's fate is sealed, not because she did anything worse than survive, but because she dared to care about someone. Attachments are fragile here. That's why I don't let myself get too close. "So, she's going to the wall?" I ask.
I'm surprised when he shakes his head, "No. She's fertile, so she will receive punishment and then be placed back in service when the time is right."
"I didn't know there was punishment for gender traitors other than the wall," I counter.
"Not for men, no. But a woman who can have children, well, we can't look a gift horse in the mouth, can we?"
I know I shouldn't ask, but I can't seem to stop my mouth from forming the words. "What's the punishment?"
I get a side eye, while he pulls deeply from his cigar. He blows the smoke out and clears his throat. He's uncomfortable,interesting,but that doesn't bode well for Ofglen. "The doctors assure me they can help her with her urges. Take away the…unnatural drive."
It takes a second for what he's saying to hit me. And when it does, I feel like I'm going to be sick. They're going to cut something out of her, carve away a piece of her humanity like it's nothing. I want to vomit, but instead, I take another draw off my cigarette.
The Commander looks at me out of the corner of his eye to see how I've reacted to the explanation, but my face is well-practiced at hiding my thoughts. He continues, changing the subject slightly, "And the Waterford's new handmaid?" he asks.
I swallow thickly and make sure I'm still holding a neutral face. "She's quiet, keeps herself out of the way. Fred did have her in his office for about two hours last night," I tell him.
He chews on his cigar for a minute. "Any idea what he wanted?" he asks.
I can't hold back the sarcastic laugh that escapes me, but I have to shake my head. I'm not privy to the exact details.
Pryce looks over at me, "You think? Again?"
I toss my cigarette on the ground and grind it under the toe of my shoe. "I can't be certain what took place outside of a breach of protocol." I hate every word as it leaves my mouth. I can't be sure he's touched her outside of the ceremony, but nothing good happens to handmaids who visit him alone, that I do know.
"We need more to move forward," the Commander says.
This is bullshit. I know it, he knows I know it, but it is the way of things. Fred fills a specific need on the council right now, so there is little he can do that would constitute anything more than a slap on the hand.
I nod, not looking at him.
"I know I can trust you to keep an eye on him for me," he says, sounding as deflated as I feel. I know he hates protecting douchebags like Fred, but that isn't going to bring much comfort to the girl with the bright blue eyes, is it?
Commander Pryce straightens up and puts out his cigar. "I have other meetings; I better be off," he states.
"Yes, I'm expected back at the house to take Mrs. Waterford out. I don't dare keep her waiting," I mutter.
I turn to walk away, but Pryce's hand on my shoulder stops me. "You won't be stuck there forever. As soon as a suitable spot opens up, you will be promoted," he states, apparently thinking my tone was a complaint about my job and not, in fact, a commentary on my wasted life.
A promotion. Like that'll change anything. I'll still be just another cog in this twisted machine, pretending I have control when, really, I'm as powerless as the rest of them. "I know you have my best interest at heart, sir. I'm not at all concerned," I lie smoothly. This seems to work, and he smiles, pumping my hand and clapping me on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Nick."
"Thank you, sir," Too bad I disagree.
Pryce moves around to his car, "Until next month," he says with a wave before ducking into the back.
"I watch him drive away, feeling the day's weight settle back onto my shoulders and heading back to the house, back to Waterford, back to the same routine. I can't remember the last time I felt anything but trapped.
Lunch is a solitary affair, a rustic sandwich at my kitchen sink. Once I popped the last of the crust in my mouth, I grabbed my work gloves and headed out the door. From my spot at the top of the stairs, I spot Offred as she exits the back door and starts down the path to the driveway. She has her shopping bag and to my utter surprise a small smile on her lips. We arrive at the bottom of the stone steps simultaneously; she slyly glances over at me, a widening smile on her face. That smile—it catches me off guard. I should be glad to see her like this, but I know what's waiting for her. It's like watching someone walk blindfolded into a trap, and I can't do a damn thing to stop it. Two things come to my mind simultaneously. One, what is up with the cocky smile, and two, the handmaid just beyond the gate isn't the Ofglen she is expecting. I suspect that whatever she has to smile about today will evaporate once she discovers that her companion of several months is gone without explanation. I want to say something, warn her somehow, but I can't, not without raising her suspicions about my role here. I grind my back teeth in irritation and disappear into the garage.
The afternoon wears on. I spend a couple of hours doing the required trimming and have just started bagging up the refuge when Rita appears, with a glass of water in hand. "Here, before you pass out," she says, shoving the glass in my hand.
I smile and take a long drink. "Thanks."
She nods and shifts on her feet, looking uncomfortable.
"What?" I ask.
"It's Offred…she didn't look right when she returned from her shopping trip. She was fine this morning, almost cheerful."
Damn, poor Offred.I finish off the water and try to figure out what is safe to tell Rita. "Maybe she walked down by the wall and saw someone she knew?" I suggest.
Rita takes the empty glass from my hand, and her eyes linger on me longer than usual. I know she's trying to read me. She suspects my connection to the Eyes and has for a while. But she knows better than to say it outright. In Gilead, some secrets are safer left unsaid. "Maybe. You should come to dinner tonight if you can. Your goofy face seems to relax her for some reason," she says evenly.
I was planning on hiding in my apartment tonight, avoiding Offred's downcast face, but Rita is right; just being there for Offred is all we have to give. My guilt be damned. I nod in agreement. Satisfied, Rita heads back to the house and I return to my task.
About an hour later, I hear the screen door off the kitchen squeal in protest as it opens. "Dinner's ready," Rita calls. Well, I guess I'm not getting out of dinner. I sigh, resigned to my fate. I need to be done out here tonight anyway, with the fall quickly approaching the sun is already dipping past the tree line, so I tie up my last bag of clippings and head inside.
When I enter, Offred is already sitting on the island, and Rita is dolloping mashed potatoes onto our plates. I move to the sink and wash my hands.
"Fried chicken, what a treat," Offred says as Rita begins putting plates down at each of our spots.
I turn around and see thatwe are indeed having fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green salad. Rita hates making fried anything and hates the cleanup, plus it would only be for the staff since the Waterfords refuse to eat fried Offed is worth the extra work, I muse, please with Rita'skind gesture.
I sit down at my spot and take a second to appreciate the amazing plate of food Rita has prepared. I smile. This is indeed a treat. My eyes travel over to Offred. I find her smiling, too. Maybe it's not just Offred that Rita was trying to make happy. "This looks amazing, Rita. Thanks!"
Rita waves off the compliment and sits down. After a quick prayer, we dig in.
"Mhmm," Offred moans. As she chews her first bite, her eyes slide closed.
Wow, well, that's…yeah, she really likes that chicken, I think. My eyes linger on her face, and I see a look of pure pleasure on it. I look away quickly and shift a bit in my seat.
Rita laughs aloud.
Offred's eyes pop open, and she looks at us innocently. "What?" she asks, stabbing another bit of chicken. "It's good, Iike, really good," she says, shoving another bite in and rolling her eyes for effect.
"You don't say," Rita snorts.
Offred shrugs. "Girls got to have something she can enjoy in life," she smirks with cloaked innuendo.
I hide a smile behind my fork and look down at my plate. For a moment, it almost feels like arealdinner. Laughter, teasing, the kind of banter that makes you forget, just for a second, where we are. I savor it, knowing it won't last, and it doesn't. Fucking Fred enters the kitchen, interpreting the few minutes we get each day "off the clock."
"Blessed Evening! I heard the laughter down the hall and had to know what was so funny?" Fred Waterford asks as he parades through the doorway.
The entire table goes silent, all lightness evaporating like fog in sunlight. The second Fred stepped into the room, the air turned cold. He's all smiles, but it's the kind of smile that makes your skin crawl. Everything light and easy evaporated the moment he appeared.
"Just complimenting Rita on her cooking, sir," I state for the now stoic group.
"Ah, yes, Rita is a master in the kitchen," he agrees. "Speaking of which, could I get some tea, Rita?" he asks, his lips pulled into his usual smarmy smile. He gets some sort of satisfaction from having Rita eat cold meals; he interrupts her all the time. I stand before Rita can, the movement instinctive. It's a small thing, offering to make the tea, but in a world like this, small acts feel like rebellion. I'll take the risk. For her. "I'll put the water on," I offer. "What kind of tea would you like, Commander?" I ask evenly.
Waterford looks at me, then at Rita. I can tell he's trying to decide if he's going to object. He must decide he wants to be generous tonight because answers that he wants chamomile and leaves the room.
Rita stands and moves to come around the table, "You shouldn't have done that," she hisses under her breath.
I shrug, "I can boil water and fill a tray. Sit," I direct, pointing to her seat.
Rita's eyes bulge a bit.
"Come on, don't make me pull out mymancard," I say, eyebrow raised.
"As you wish, Guardian Blaine," she says and sighs happily as she settles down at her plate again.
I shove bites of food into my mouth as I wait for the water to boil, and the two women resume a light conversation about the coming fall. Oh how I miss talking about movies, music, the neighbors, hell anything but the fucking weather.
With the tray made up, I make a quick trip to deliver it, and, praising be, the Commander is on the phone, so I escape back to my dinner.
"You want me to reheat it?" Rita asks as I settle into my chair.
I shake my head, "Nope."
"You know, you talk too much, Nick," Offred says with a smile.
Rita chuckles. "Yep, a real chatterbox, this one," she adds, tossing a thumb in my direction.
My eyes skirt between the two women, clearly pleased with themselves at my expense.
"Wow, I feel so welcomed," I mutter, shoving a spoonful of room-temperature mash into my mouth.
Offred chuckles, low in her chest. It's a lovely sound I wish I could hear more often.
Dinner wraps up without further fanfare, and the ladies make quick work of cleaning up while I finish my plate. Rita knows I'll handle my dishes—I always do—and so she wishes us a Blessed Evening and turns out the main lights before disappearing to do whatever she does in her very limited free time.
With only the over-the-sink and stove lights on, the kitchen vibe goes moody. I finish up and go to the sink to do my washing. Offred comes to stand next to me as I wash up. She stands too close, close enough that I can feel the heat from her skin. In this world, that kind of closeness is dangerous, but I don't pull away. Not tonight. There's something in her eyes, something fragile and scared, and I want to tell her I see it. I see her. "That was nice of you. What did you do for Rita," she says quietly.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye; she is looking at my profile. "She doesn't deserve to eat all her meals cold," I shrug.
There is a pregnant pause, and then she says, "Yeah, well, there's a lot we don't…" but she doesn't finish the sentence.
I look up at her as I grab the dishtowel from the rack beside her. I won't ply her for the end of the sentence. There are no good outcomes if she continues speaking. Even what I've said is questionable if overheard by the wrong people.
She looks uncomfortable, and her eyes dart around. I've finished drying my plate and move to put it in the cabinet. The air is thick with unsaid words. I hang up the towel and turn my eyes back to hers. "Acts of kindness aren't a sin. Just be careful who you do them for," I offer.
She looks up at me, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears. I wonder if this is about Ofglen or something else. I'm awkward with emotions. I know this, but I want her to know she's not completely alone. Ofglen wasn't the only person who understood her plight. I clear my throat, "Do you want a cup of tea?" I ask.
She smiles a true smile, with teeth and everything, but shakes her head no. "Unless you are going to pull your "man" card on me," she says, putting air quotes around the word "man. " Thanks but no thanks. Tea will just keep me up, decaf or not," she states.
I can't keep the corner of my mouth from pulling up on one side. I'm guessing I'll not be living down my "man card" comment for a while.
The sound of the office door creaking open snaps me back to reality. My pulse quickens. We can't be caught like this—alone, in the dark. Fred wouldn't need much to twist this into something dangerous, something its not. I have to go. Now. I make my way for the door, but with a hand on the handle, I pause, looking over at Offred still at the sink, a small smile on her face. I linger for a second longer than I should, watching her. Something in her smile tugs at me, something soft in a world that's nothing but hard edges. I don't want to leave, but I have to. "Goodnight, Offred," I say, hoping she understands everything I can't say. She lifts her lips into a gentle smile and mouths Goodnight to me before escaping the kitchen and any possible runs in with Fred.
My morning is a flurry of activity. Fred had an early meeting with Commander Lawrence, which took me completely across town. Then, as soon as I arrived home, Mrs. Waterford lined me up to take her and Offred to Putnam's for a new baby viewing or some nonsense. If the driving back and forth in mid-day traffic isn't enough, Mrs. Waterford is in a strangely good mood, which is always something to be concerned about. She is just short of fawning over Offred, checking on her comfort, and worried about the car's temperature the whole way to the Putnam's house. Her entire vibe is off and awkward.
When I finally drop down at the kitchen island with a cold cup of coffee, it's nearly lunchtime. Rita shuffles in with a laundry basket on her hip. She silently sets it on the floor and moves to the stove, pulling out a pan. A couple of minutes later she's frying eggs I didn't ask for. My words to Offred last night flash back at me:acts of kindness aren't a sin.
Ten minutes later, a plate of eggs and a thick slice of toast dosed in her homemade cherry jam is in front of me. I rub my hands together happily and fill up my fork. The bite is nearly to my mouth when the front doorbell rings. Rita and I look at each other, her eyes wide. No one good ever shows up without our prior knowledge.
"I'll …get that," she stammers worriedly. I stand and follow her out of the room. She shoots me a look of gratitude.
Waiting for us behind the door is an Eye, and not a very pleasant one. This guy is a dink, and I hate him. "Guardian Piler," I state, stepping through the door jam to greet him.
"Blaine," he says, shaking my extended hand.
I glance over at Rita, "I'll handle this. Go back to your laundry," I direct in a tone never use with Rita unless we're in front of people who outrank us. She nods and disappears down the hall.
"So, what business do the Eyes have here today?" I ask respectfully. This guy is a douche, but he outranks me within the organization, so I have to play nice.
"Well, I'm here to have a chat with your handmaid. Her aunt should be here shortly," he says casually.
Crap. I snort and wave him into the house. "That mouse of a thing? The girl is practically mute. My reports have said as much, and during my meeting with Pryce yesterday, he seemed to feel all was in order regarding this new handmaid. I have to admit, I'm a bit confused as to why you're here," I state, hoping name-dropping Pryce might discourage whatever agenda he has.
"Ah, well, that must have been before he was briefed regarding her walking partner, Ofglen," he returns, brushing invisible lint from his jacket sleeve. I want to laugh in his pathetic face.
"Hum, strange. We discussed the Ofglen situation at length, and there weren't any concerns surrounding Offred. As I said, she's not a very chatty girl, and I didn't observe any real conversation between the two," I deflect.
Eye Piler lifts his chin. He's not happy I'm countering his assertions. "I see. Well, I have my orders, and they are to talk with her. I got to do what was directed by my superiors," he says dismissively.
I'm about to mount another argument when there is another knock at the front door—theAunt.I run into Rita in the hall and wave her back to the kitchen. She sighs in relief and scurries back the way she came. I open the door, and Aunt Lydia is on the course, Offred's Aunt is the biggest cunt in the Red Center. Fuck me.
"I believe I'm to meet Guardian Piler here this afternoon," the aunt states with an air of authority. I push back the sigh, dying to escape, and usher her into the parlor, where Piler waits. I have only one more ploy to play: "I'm sorry you both came so far, but Offred isn't here at the moment. She's out with Mrs. Waterford on a social call at the Putnams," I explain.
"I see. When do you expect her back?" Aunt Lydia asks, pulling her prod from its holster and tapping it in her hand impatiently. I glance at my watch; it's 11:30 a.m. "I'm to retrieve them at 12:30 p.m.," I state, hoping against hope they aren't willing to stand around waiting for an hour.
Lydia smiles and sits in one of the wing-backed chairs by the fireplace. "Wonderful, plenty of time for a spot of tea while we wait," she says, acting like this is a social call, not an interrogation. What has to have happened to a person for them to take pleasure in torturing another? I wonder.
This is checkmate. I don't have enough power to stop this from happening. "I'll have Rita prepare a tray," I say, then march out of the room.
The hour passes too quickly. Too soon, I'm pulling up outside the Putnam's. I spot a Marth's pull back the curtain to see who's arrived. She'll alert the woman that I'm here. I exit the car and open the door closest to the sidewalk.
Only Offred appears and descends the steps. She spots me and smiles a little. Guilt grips my guts. "Mrs. Waterford will stay a while longer. The Putnam's driver will bring her when she ready," she informs me and climbs into the car. It would be best if Mrs. Waterford joined us, but I'm not permitted to make that request of her myself. I can only pass on messages if they come from Mr. Waterford or an official, and neither of the goons at the house asked for Serena to be present. I'm out of options.
Guilt grips my gut like a vice. I want to scream at her to run, to hide—but the words catch in my throat. My job, my mask, keeps me mute. Useless. Instead, I drive, each turn of the tires pulling her closer to the wolves waiting at the house. We travel in silence for a couple of blocks before she decides to try to start a conversation. "Have you seen the Putnam's baby?" she asks.
I would like nothing more than baby banter with you, Offred, but two lunatics are waiting to beat information out of you, so I'm a little preoccupied with that at the moment. My back teeth grind together. Say something! My mind screams, but my lips stay sealed.
She continues, "She's really cute."
I glance at her in the rearview mirror. She's looking out the window.
"I love fat babies," she says before turning back and catching my eyes in the mirror. "Do you know Ofglen's gone?"
Yes, actually, I do, but it's best you don't know that I know.
She doesn't give up, "Hmm? You said she was dangerous. What'd you mean?"
We are getting closer and closer to her impending interrogation. I have to say something. I make eye contact with her in the mirror, "You need to remember a few things. You can't change anything about this. It's gonna end the same no matter what you do, so there's no point trying to be tough or brave. Brave isn't any part of this. Everybody breaks. Everybody." Yeah, I know, cheerful. I'm a dick. And we're home.
She sees the van in the driveway, "Nick?" she asks, scared. The sound of my name is a punch to the gut.
"What is this?" she pleads.
A witch hunt, sorry, Offred. I give her the only advice I have to offer, "Tell them everything."
"Nick!" she says frantically,
"Whatever they want to know, just tell them," I say evenly.
Her breath catches loudly in her throat, and I'm undone. My confession comes out unchecked by my brain, "I couldn't stop them. I'm sorry." I hope she knows I mean , like my sincerity matters right guards pile out of the transport and flank her on either side. I follow the three into the house, but I'm directed to stay in the hallway. I lean against the wall outside the door and let my eyes close. I should have done more…should have…
Through the parlor door, I hear the sound of the prod hitting flesh; it makes me flinch, but it's her muffled groan that hits hardest. My head thuds against the wall harder than I intended, but it's nothing compared to what she's going through on the other side of the door. Useless. Completely useless.
Rita joins my vigil, her hand on my forearm. The touch pulls me out of the spiral in my head. Her eyes are worried and tired, but there's something else too—understanding. We don't talk about it, but we both know. We're all complicit, trapped in this machine, trying to do what little we can to survive. I open my eyes and find her worried ones. "She just needs to tell them the truth," I whisper, not believing a single word leaving my mouth.
The door muffles the conversation, I can't make out what's being said but I do hear the pod again, and another pained groan.
Rita holds a hand to her mouth, tears in her eyes. "That can't be good if she's carrying," she says mostly to herself.
My eyes snap to hers, "She's pregnant?" I ask, shocked.
I don't get an answer because it's this very moment when Mrs. Waterford bursts through the front door. She's a teal tornado. From the parlor, we hear the crack of a palm against skin and then a prolonged zap. Mrs. Waterford burst through the doors, sending them to bounce off the wall behind them. She kneels next to Offred's prone form on the floor.
Piler admonishes her, "Mrs. Waterford, this is state business," he grinds out hotly.
Serena's voice is sharp, panicked. 'She's pregnant!' It's not an announcement—it's a plea, a lifeline she's clinging to in the chaos. I've never seen her like this before, this raw, this exposed.
I quickly enter in after Serna and place myself in a protective stance near my mistress and Offred, who is curled up on the floor. Trembling. Fury washes over me. I want to tear them apart. The way she weeps—it's not just pain. It's fear, humiliation. Gilead doesn't just break bodies, it breaks spirits. And standing there, watching her unravel, I know I should've done something—anything—to stop it.
My fingers twitch against the cold metal of my gun, a weapon I'd love to use right now. But in Gilead, you only ever have the illusion of power. One wrong move, and it's not them, but me on the wall. Still, I let myself imagine it—just for a second—what it would feel like to make them pay for every bruise, every scream. I'm ready for the fight, but my vigilance is for naught. The utterance of that single word evaporates all the fight Piler and Aunit Lydia have. After all, killing a baby, even on accident, is a death sentence. Aunt Lydia looks nauseous, and I would too if I was told the woman I was just beating and electrocuting is possibly pregnant. Offred, curled up in a ball, weeps quietly; it's nearly my undoing. I want nothing more than to shove that fucking cattle prod down both of these asshole's throats. It takes monumental self-control to stay rooted to the floor where I am.
Piler plasters his face in a look of remorse, "Well, this is such wonderful news. Congratulations on your blessed miracle," he says through a greasy grin. He looks over at the Aunt, "We have all the information we need." he states.
Serna Joy isn't having any of their excuses. "Get out of my house!" she demands.
Piler and Aunt Lydia silently head for the door. I don't bother seeing them out, fuck them.
Mrs. Waterford is on the floor with Offred. She gently pushes hair from her face, "It's okay," she soothes. Serena's rage wasn't just about the baby. It's more than that. There's something maternal, almost human, in the way she cradles Offred's face. In this twisted world, even Serena's compassion is tainted. And yet, it's the only thing keeping Offred safe right now. I hate her for what she is, but in this moment, I need her to protect the woman we both rely on."
Rita scurries into the parlor and kneels next to Offred as well. "Are you okay?" she asks gently with sincere concern.
Offred nods and slowly sits up with the two women's assistance.
"Rita, get her a glass of water," Serna directs.
The Martha is up and off to the kitchen in a flash.
"Can you stand up?" Mrs. Waterford asks.
"Yes," Offred says and struggles to her feet. Mrs. Waterford gestures for a chair, and I bring it over. Rita re-enters with a glass of ice water, and the two women fuss over her a little before the mistress turns to me. "I need you to retrieve the Commander immediately," she instructs.
I'd rather stay here and make sure no one comes back, but then again, baby bomb did that job for me. They won't be back. No, they will be too busy covering their tracks to ensure they don't end up on the wall or the centerpiece at a salvaging.
"Yes, ma'am. Right away."
The drive across town is thirty minutes. Thirty minutes. Thirty long minutes to sit with the weight of my own complicity. Thirty minutes to curse myself for not doing more, for not stopping them. I should've stepped in, taken the prod, anything. Instead, I stood there, hand on my gun like a good soldier, while they tortured her.
When I return home with the head of the house, the sun has set. As soon as the car is in park, Fred rushes into the house, and he and Mrs. Waterford disappear into the parlor.
I drop down into a chair at the table in the breakfast room, my forehead propped in my hands.
Rita takes the seat next to me.
I look at her through my fingers; she looks as exhausted as I feel. "Is she really pregnant?" I ask.
She shrugs, "Just a couple of days late, so maybe, maybe not."
I lean back in the chair and let my hands fall onto the table. "How is she?"
"Beat up, but okay, I think."
She lifts a hand, and I see she has a towel wrapped around some ice. "Why don't you take this up to her," she suggests, holding it out to me.
I look at it, then over my shoulder at the doorway.
"They'll be in there for a while. Mrs. Waterford was making a list of all the people that needed screaming at while you were gone; it's extensive," she says knowingly. She holds the icepack out, waving it a bit.
I squint her but give her a little smile as I reach out and take the excuse for me to climb up the third floor. "Thanks," I mutter.
She smiles, stands, and heads into the kitchen to start dinner.
I climb the back stairs as silently as possible. No need to advertise my insubordination to those who might care. Offred's door is closed, but light seeps out from under it. I pause for a second and stare at the faded paint before reaching up and rapping my knuckles against the wood. "Can I come in?" I request.
"Sure," comes a soft reply.
I push open the door and step in, glancing over my shoulder to ensure I haven't been followed. "I just wanted to check if you're…you're okay," I tell her. She has a red lump rising on her cheekbone that looks painful, I cringe inwardly. I shouldn't be here. Not after what I let happen. Seeing that bruise on her face twists the knife of guilt in my gut. I should've stopped them, should've done something—anything—other than just stand by like a fucking coward.
Her eyes don't meet mine, but I wouldn't want to look at the person to deliver me to a beating, either.
"I'm fine. Thank you," she says gently.
Thank you, really? I would curse me out.
"Except for the weird guy who just snuck into my room." She says, looking up at me through her lashes. A small smile pulls on her lips, and she chuckles.
I'm rather dumbfounded by her reaction. Where is the blame, the anger?Who are you?I wonder. I'm mystified, but Ichuckle along with her.
She looks down at my hand with the icepack in it. "You're dripping." she points out.
I glance down at the melting bundle;ohyeah, that's why I'm here."I brought you some ice." I offer.
She seems pleased with the gesture, "Thank you," she returns sincerely.
I close the gap between us slowly, my eyes instinctively seeking hers as I draw nearer, but there is no escaping the facts: she is up here in need of this ice pack because of my inaction, my willingness to "just do my job." Regret mixes with wishes and I begin mumbling out the mantra that has been playing in my brain for the last several hours. "I wish...I should've…" I stammer, searching for the right words. "I should've just driven away with you," I confess.I want to keep you safe. ThatIs what I want to say, but I don't think I should make promises I likely can't keep.
She says nothing, looks at me, and I mean really looks at me. Her crystal-like blue eyes are like magnets, drawing me into her orbit. I can't stop my feet; I step into her personal space. Her gaze is unwavering. Cupping one of her hands in mine, I place the towel into her upturned palm. The air in the room goes thick as my thumb trails down across the soft skin of her hand in a gentle caress. The tiny connection of our hands is electric and overwhelming, and my brain screams out for more. I intrude further into her personal space until we are only inches apart. She tilts her head back and stares up at me, her mouth slightly agape. My gaze falls to her lips. Six inches, no four, is all it would take to capture her mouth with mine. I don't think she'd stop me, either. She's so close. This is dangerous—too dangerous. Every time I'm near her, the pull to her is stronger, the need louder. But there's no room for this here, no space for… whatever this is. It's a weakness, and weaknesses get you killed. Self-preservation finally kicks in,Leave Now!my brain demands.
Reluctantly, my body follows the orders of my brain, and I step back towards the door. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to keep up the retreat. At the door, I allow myself one last glance back at her. She's exactly where I left her, the cloth dripping onto the floorboards. Her eyes beckon me back, asking me to return to take the next . What have I done? What shut-off part of my brain did I just set free?I let out a strangled, wanting breath and shook my head. I exit the room on numb feet, securing the door behind me. Each step away from her feels like I'm tearing something inside me apart. I want to turn back, tell her… I don't even know what. That I'm sorry? That I'll protect her? Empty promises. But as much as I want to stay, to keep her close, I know this can't happen. Gilead won't allow it. And the truth is, neither can I. I keep moving despite my desires and don't stop until I'm standing under the spray of my shower.
My forehead finds the cool tile of the surround and I try to clear my brain of the flush of hormones it has been doused in. Damn, I haven't felt this intensely drawn to anyone since I was 16 and completely head over heels in love with Kylie Manor. I couldn't think around her, and she made my nerves light up like a Christmas tree if she even so much as brushed past me in the school hallway. I was completely infatuated with her but utterly incapable of showing her how I felt. Well, I'm not 16 anymore, and no matter how incrementally suaver I've become, it's all for naught. Nothing can happen. Gilead won't allow it. Whatever that was, it's over before it even got a chance to start.
