Power Over Me

Kloey

Kloey

I sit at the very end of the table on the harsh wooden bench. I should be thankful to have a place to sit at all; our small band of humans is run by a tight hierarchy, of which I am at the very bottom. I believe they only took me in so I could do the things no one else wished to do, like dig latrines, or fetch fresh water multiple times a day.

I would take pity over what I receive instead, but I keep my mouth shut and work as hard as I can each day. By nightfall, it takes all my strength to climb into my little loft before I curl up and pass out, only to be roused at dawn by their boisterous shouts. I am surrounded by tough, grizzled men, the kind who look you in the eye and seize a bit of your soul as well.

The other women are just as tough; we've had our share of run-ins, and so over the six months I have been with this group, I have mostly stuck to myself, listening only to our leader, Robert. He's a paunchy man, with a big belly and sweat stains on his tank tops. Everyone else does his dirty work, while he sits back and grows more and more hefty.

I stare down at my dented tin plate, pushing my mushy peas in circles, my cheek in my fist. Since I have no family, and since I am female, I am only allowed to dish up when everyone else has. Typically, the meals are more sparse, but today they have ransacked a cache of Erathian goods. The celebratory air is palpable.

I have never seen an Erathian up close—last night was my first time. They are just as scary as everyone says they are. Huge, muscly, with eyes that glint like a wolf or cougar. I heard, though, that they all have dark eyes. This prisoner has cool, grey hued eyes. I sniff, wiping my runny nose on my ragged sleeve. I know what it is like to be different than the rest of society.

I wonder if he was ever made fun of for the color of his eyes.

I scrape some peas into my mouth, shaking the thoughts loose. I shouldn't think about him, or be curious; he is dangerous, and his kind have enslaved humans and done horrific things to them. I am lucky to still be alive, to still be free.

Well, at least I have heard the rumors. Sasha claims she escaped one, and her stories were dark enough to churn my stomach, but Betsy called her a liar and a fraud. I don't know who to believe anymore. I overheard Robert say they were going to question him, keep him alive for a while.

I frown at my plate. It doesn't seem right, to hold someone hostage, someone who wasn't doing anything except passing through the Wilds. But, again, I have no say, and even less knowledge of these kinds of things, and so I keep my mouth shut and my head down.

I jump as a plate of scraps is shoved in front of me, and my stomach sinks as my eyes find Carl. He smirks down at me, his perfectly chiseled face made even more striking in the lowlight of our small dining area. His hazel eyes glint with malice, and he runs a hand through his sandy blond hair. He is young—closer to my age than the rest of the humans here, but he is sly, cunning, and I have seen him snap a few times. His anger is unrivaled. He is one I attempt to stay as far away from as possible.

I pull my sleeves down over my hands, hunching my shoulders. He reaches over, plucking a lock of my hair from my shoulder before he twirls it between his fingers, his smirk growing. I hate being touched by anyone. My parents died before I could remember them, and I was raised on the run by my grandfather before he, too, passed. I was never given much affection, especially anything physical.

"Such pretty hair, little miss Kloey," he purrs. I blush, avoiding his eyes. He leans in closer.

"Be a good girl and feed our prisoner," he says, dropping my hair. I reach for the plate of scraps, moving to stand and be away from him. His hand catches my forearm. My eyes bounce to his in worry, but he simply wears that same smirk on his face.