Subjection (13 page)

I try to put the thought out of my mind, think about the promotion I’m earning. It will earn me more money, but more importantly, it will give me access to the accounts I’ve been interested in. It wasn’t my original plan, back when everything went to hell and I had to erase that part of my life, but some of the financial partners whom Dean & Chanu Associates work with are directly relevant to the research I used to do, the research I want to do again, one day. It’s this thought that captures my attention more than anything, and I’m still engrossed in it by the time I go to pick up Sascha.

He looks drawn and pale; I ask him whether he’s been hurt at all. He mumbles, “No, master,” while looking out the window. I frown, but say nothing else. I wonder if he’s angry that I lent him out, or that I came back for him.

He retreats to his room the moment we get home, and he avoids me after that. I give him his space. I have no demands for him, and I assume he can keep himself busy. After all, there are still illegal activities to fill his time with. He’s more careful with his tablet now, but I know he’s still exploring with it. It surprised me when I first found out, especially when I realized how advanced and elegant his codes were. He’s far brighter than he lets on, and if he wants to keep his secrets, I’ll let him.

After all, I have my own.

Sascha cooks, although he doesn’t seem to like to eat when I’m around. Grocery bills come and food disappears from the fridge, so I assume he’s enjoying his creations. I wonder if it’s my presence that ruins his appetite. I start to eat out more, which works well. I have meetings set up with investors on a regular basis, both for work, and for my research project. The re-education centers may have been revolutionized by my mother, but I want my generation to be better. I want it overthrown, and to do that, I have to be more careful than I was last time. It makes me smile to think of Sascha and his adventures on his tablet; trouble finds both of us. I only hope that I complete my project this time.

In between meetings, I try to have at least a little social time. I invite Bobby over and suggest that Sascha prepare something spicy for us. I do like his food, and I want to see how he interacts. He amazed me at the Peace Day Celebration, Mr. Dean still raves about the night he spent with him; I want to see him in a less formal setting.

The smell of spices and browning meat fills the air by the time Bobby arrives, and I’m amazed by the ease with which Sascha manages it. He serves us, not well, but he tries. It’s a good skill to have; I keep in mind that he might be a valuable asset to bring to meetings and negotiations. To play in a world of slave-owners and stakeholders, owning a slave makes one far less suspicious.

Bobby and I engage in banal, light conversation, as always. We’ve been friends since we were children, and we’ve gone through plenty of periods of growth and change with one another. Bobby compliments the food; he has such an easy manner, even if Sascha seems to flinch away from it. I attempt to praise Sascha, and he turns away from me as well.

“Cash, the kid cooks quite well, but don’t you ever let him eat it?” Bobby asks, shoveling food into his mouth as he does.

“Of course,” I reply, offended at the suggestion. I’m not some sort of monster. Sascha is fed better than the majority of free population. “What, would you like him to pull up a chair next to you? I’m sure he has a dish back in the kitchen, or maybe he’s eaten already. He’s capable of feeding himself, I’m sure.”

Bobby laughs. “It’s not that, man, he’s just so damn skinny! I can’t believe he hasn’t put on any weight since you bought him!”

I turn my glare toward Sascha, who seems to shrink before my eyes. His clothes are baggy, loose, not the well-sized garments I purchased for him. He seems to curl into himself, and when I catch his gaze, he glances away.

“He did,” I answer evenly. “It just seems to have disappeared again.”

“Maybe he’s sick,” Bobby comments. “I probably couldn’t pinch anything but skin on that little ass!”

The comment gets me a little ruffled, but I don’t want to offend Bobby. I keep glaring at the slave, who is trembling now that he’s the center of attention. “I’ll look into it.”

I steer the conversation toward more appropriate topics—work, movies, anything but my slave and his lack of body weight. I can see Bobby eyeing Sascha up throughout the night and it irks me. Health is important. I didn’t buy the slave so he could starve himself. Sascha keeps bringing us more and more drinks, as if I’m stupid enough to get drunk and pass out without dealing with him.

“I think we’ve had enough drinks, Sascha,” I tell him, fixing my glare at him. He pales, but nods. “I have an early morning. Clear the table and bring Bobby his coat.”

We finish talking as Sascha cleans up, and I wave Bobby out the door. Sascha is cleaning up by the time Bobby leaves, and I come out to see him standing nervously in the dining room.

I pull out a chair and point him toward it. “Sit there and don’t move until I get back,” I order. I storm out of the house, intent on finding a solution to this weight loss problem. Sascha can be a valuable asset to me in the slave trade, but not if he’s starving. It contradicts all of my research.

My master leaves me in a state of panic, imagining all the terrible things he might come back with. I think of all the torture devices that have been used on me in the past, and what if he finds one of those, what if he takes my refusal to eat as defiance, and he wants to punish me for it? Or what if he doesn’t come back at all? What if he leaves me here, forever, and I starve and pee on myself and die?

I remind myself that even if he doesn’t come back, eventually, I could get up and use the bathroom or eat or whatever; it’s not like I’m chained by anything other than sheer terror. Worrying about him not coming back shouldn’t even be my biggest concern; I should really focus on worrying what exactly he might bring back with him when he returns. All the options make me sick to my stomach.

It turns out I don’t have to wait that long; he’s back in about twenty minutes with a bag. I cringe as I look at it, wondering what sorts of torture devices he might take out of it and hurt me with.

It’s an understatement to say I’m surprised when he pulls out a scale.

He drops it on the floor and points to it.

“Get on.”

I obey, and he looks at the reading. He glares at me.

“I’ll weigh you daily,” he says, scowling. “You lose another pound and I’ll tie you down and force feed you.”

“Yes, master.” I can feel the tears starting again. Fuck. I can’t even stay alive right. It’s not good enough for him. Nothing is, and nothing will be, and I was stupid for ever even trying.

“I thought you said you didn’t have an eating problem!” he snaps. The sudden emotion in his voice makes me jump.

“I don’t, master,” I protest, fully aware of how weak and pathetic it sounds. I never did before, when I was a real human instead of a piece of meat to be sampled by everyone who wants a bite. Even now, it’s not about the food, but I can’t tell him that. “I just forget.”

“Forget?” His tone is incredulous. “You don’t
forget
to eat at all. Those clothes hang on you, and they used to fit. Quit lying this instant!”

I stand there trembling, waiting to feel him hit me.

His face grows darker. “Still doing the physical therapy exercises you’re supposed to?”

Of course not. “I’ll start tonight, master.”

I feel him take a step closer, and I realize my eyes are closed when he grabs me by the shirt and jerks me toward him. The motion jars my shoulder, shooting pain through my left side and emphasizing his point. “This is the reason I didn’t want a slave,” he hisses. “Keep this bullshit up and I’ll sell you to the first interested party.”

I want to drop to my knees, but he’s still holding me. “Please, no!” I whimper anyway, looking up at him. “Please, master.” It’s all I can to do keep standing, but I think he might let me hang myself from my shirt if I don’t.

He pushes me away, a look of disgust on his face. “Get your act together,” he warns. “I’m not asking all that much of you.”

He walks away and I let myself crumple to the floor, holding back my cries until I hear him slam the door to his office. He’s keeping me. He’s still keeping me. I’ve fucked up now, though, too much, too bad, and he’s angry, and I’m a problem for him, and if I don’t stop fucking up he’ll sell me. I don’t even want to take care of myself properly anymore. But I will. I’ll try. Any other master would have beaten me for letting myself go so much, and he isn’t going to do that, and I want to stay with him. I would rather stay with a person who ignores me and weighs me to make sure I’m healthy than someone who starves me and goes out of their way to be cruel. I realize how good I really have it, and I suddenly have the will to fight to keep it.

I force myself to eat. I don’t care much about what it is, or even if it’s healthy, although the healthy foods seem to make my stomach feel less sick. I read the labels and eat whatever has the most calories. I remind myself that I was stupid to think that I was special, that my master valued me and wouldn’t pass me around. I remind myself that my concern now is pleasing my master, not making his life more difficult.

I don’t know how all the Demoted don’t just commit mass suicide every day.

Then again, I don’t actually want to die, which is annoying. It would be easier if I wanted to die. I want to live, and I want to stay with my asshole of a master. I don’t know whether to worship him or hate him. Realistically, he’s the best I’m going to get. Probably better than I deserve. I’m a slave; I have to stop thinking of myself as a person who deserves things like respect, no matter how much it hurts when I don’t get it. I’m being treated far better than I thought I would when he more or less rescued me from the brothel. As soon as I start thinking about that, all I can think of is how much I want to avoid going back there, or to a place like that. It makes me even more desperate to please the bastard. I wish the logical part of my brain would come out of hibernation and communicate with the panicky prey-animal part.

It’s the panicky prey-animal part that tends to come out around my master, though, when he weighs me daily and my heart almost stops and I wonder if I’ve stuffed enough bread and cheese and butter and water into myself to satisfy him.

He doesn’t even tell me what the scale says, he just looks and grunts at me. I guess grunt means I did well, maybe if I didn’t he would bark or something. Sometimes I can’t tell if he’s the animal or if I am.

Aside from stuffing myself and doing the physical therapy exercises, I brood, curled up in bed or sometimes on the floor, if getting onto the bed seems too difficult. I shower only because I’m afraid of the repercussions if I don’t. I clean the house while my master’s out, but I do a pretty terrible job of that, anymore. My master ignores me, and some days, I’d rather have him beat me. I feel myself disappearing, my face drawn and dead looking. I hope it makes me look distinguished.

My master must not think so, though, because when I’m submitting to the embarrassing ordeal of being weighed again one night, he frowns at me.

“Maybe Bobby’s right. Maybe you are sick,” he mumbles. “Just what I’d like to do, take you to the doctor again.”

“I’m not sick, master,” I say, surprised that I’m actually speaking to him, much less contradicting him. Maybe I am sick. Mentally. Contradicting him is crazy.

He raises an eyebrow at me.

“I mean, I, I feel fine, master,” I mumble, feeling ridiculous. “I’m not trying to argue or anything, and I’ll go and see the doctor if you want me to, but I don’t feel sick and I don’t think anything’s wrong.”

“Then what the hell is your problem?” he asks, and he doesn’t actually sound too angry, he sounds genuinely curious, despite his phrasing. I’m shocked enough that he’s inquiring as it is; if he sounded compassionate I’d probably die on the spot.

I’m stumped for a minute. I’m a slave. I’m miserable. Isn’t it obvious? “I feel fine, master,” I mumble again, useless.

“You don’t eat. You mope around this goddamn house like someone just killed your puppy. You do a shitty job at cleaning, and you do an even shittier job of lying to me.”

Dammit, I hate how observant he can be.

“So
what
. The hell. Is your problem?” He glares at me, and I wish I had somewhere to hide. He rubs his hand along the side of his face. “You’ve been strange since I left you at my boss’s house—did he hurt you or something?”

“No, master,” I rush to correct him. “He was perfectly kind.” Too kind, actually, I almost feel guilty about how miserable he made me when he was just trying to have a good time.

“Was he sick? Did you catch something from him?” My master presses, glaring at me still.

“No, master, nothing like that.” I want to run out of the room.

He’s silent for a few moments, appraising me, glaring at my too-thin frame and drawn look and dark eyes and every other flaw that I know he can see.

“What if I were to tell you that he’s requested you for a while?” he says, his face a mask.

My heart drops, and I bite back tears. I’m standing next to the scale that he uses to weigh me, but I drop to my knees. “Please, master, please don’t make me!”