Chapter 2: In the Womb of Emotion

As he spots me, a devious grin creeps across his face. Instinctively, I sharply draw in my breath and hold it. It is useless. It is all useless. He reaches down into the car, his hands like chains to me.

He curls his long, formidable fingers around my exposed knee and jerks me into sight. I feel a twinge of fiery pain down the length of my leg as my knee pops. I know it isn't broken. I raise my knees, preparing to kick and struggle, until a lost feeling falls over me. Should I struggle, what was I to do afterwards? With no emotion left in me to cloud my logical thinking, I reluctantly allow him to pull me out of the car, hassle-free.

He knocks my shoulder and ankle on the edge of the sunroof while pulling me out, but handles me with impeccable delicacy once I'm exposed. My sickly small body, emaciated and worn, does look rather delicate. As I'm looking down, I'm afraid even walking will break my very legs from beneath me. I should feel embarrassed as all the other men of the gang crowd around me in a dense circle, sizing me up from a distance and all with eyes on me.

"No!" I hear a shrill cry somewhere beyond the wall of men. "You can't have her!"

What an idiot. She's going to get herself killed.

Suddenly, she breaks through the crowd of at least twenty men, shoulder to shoulder. Though I stand taller than she, she runs to me and holds me, wrapping her arms and hands around my head and forcing me to look away.

"You.. you beasts!" she shrieks. "You horrendous, murdering, women-raping savages! You should be ashamed!" She continues carrying on.

A quiet rush of noise rushes through the audience. The quiet murmur of their conversations disturb me, though I cannot hear anyone clearly. I can hear in my mind: We can take the woman along, too. Just kill the children, we can eat the dog.

I tighten my jaw and clench my fists. Shut up! I yell in my mind, holding a low rumble in my throat. It gradually becomes silent and an irritating buzz in my ear replaces it. Shut up! I yell again, directing it to the noise in my head. I push the woman hard enough that she falls and I crouch down, staring and growling at her. I can still hear it, but cannot feel the vibrations in my throat anymore. I realize that my whole body is numb. I look down and see a colourful bulb attached to a needle, erect from my arm.

She looks at me so deeply, with a lost determination I know all too well. I would apologize in a normal situation. Stay and take care of the dog. She's all I have left to protect.

My mother always told me I had an odd way of speaking with my eyes alone. Two blinks and a tear-filled glance signal her leave. She stands, brushes herself off, and returns from where she came. I hear her foot-patter as she gets further and further away. There is a pause and after a moments hesitation, the screen door opens. "Darla," the commander yells after her, taking in a breath to say more. The door closes.

I too, stand. Even though you bastards would never understand... The silence does not go unappreciated. I feel faint and stammer to the side, losing my balance. i fall. My arms break my fall. I look at the needle in my arm. I rip it out and throw it in the dirt.

"Darla!" Commander says with an ominous tone. I hear another door shut and hastily lock. She must have been watching through the screen. He comes to me and grabs my faceand turns it to each side. His hands are big and rough. My cheeks feel the cuts in his palms. He pats down my body, taking his time on the more personal areas. It's just skin. Why do you get so angry? There's no one to see it, or to show off to.

It was hot but my clothes were thin and torn, revealing more than a modest woman would wish. Any normal girl would have taken the jacket he offered as a romantic gesture. I am not too proud to take it, but only for my comfort and nothing more.

I am escorted to a horse, where the commander forces me on its back. I glare angrily at him and awkwardly shift positions so I am not so uncomfrotable. I feel the effects of the drugs swamping my mind and weighing down my limbs. "You didn't leave the needle in long enough for it to knock you out, you'll be fine," a voice says to me. I look at the heavy barrels on each side of the sweaty, pained horse. I stroke his face and swing my leg over to slide off. Commander catches me before I hit the ground and the surprise throws off my balance. That poor thing has enough weight on it already.

He points at the horse and I stubbornly shake my head. He grabs my arm roughly and shakes me once. "Get on the damn horse!" he yells at me. I turn to walk away and he mumbles, "Fine, fine! You want to be stubborn? You don't want to ride the damn thing because you want to be stubborn? Then you can walk with it!" He grabs my wrists and uses the rein to tie them together. He slaps the horse in the rear and we begin walking.

Three weeks into the journey, my feet are blistered and hurting. There is no more sand, as far as I can see, but the grass conceals painful obstacles such as rocks and splinters. Commander tends to my feet each night. There are no shoes available for me and the rags he ties around my feet wither to nothing by the end of the week. My wrists hurt more than anything else. They are scabbed over from the abrasive rein and oozing fluids. Finally, he unties me.

"There's no where for you to run," he assures me. It feels good as the air cools my burning and feverish skin but when it stops blowing I have to control my urges to flail my arms in order to cool my wrists. This pain. Why do I live? It hurts in my muscles, and in my skin, and in my chest. It hurts in my mind and in my soul. These thoughts come, and though they are not beneficial, I realize I am beginning to regain my human emotion and the numb aspect I have of the world is beginning to fade.

The trip will be months further. I no longer have to sleep bound to the horse in the chilly night, watching as the bandits make camp and play cards and drink beer. Nightfall comes and I return to the horse, the only place I've known. I lay beside him, pulling the jacket tighter around me and snuggling the horse's soft back as he lays.

Whispers concealed by darkness awoke me. The moon shone in such a way that I could vaguely see countenances. I press myself directly against the horse trying to blend in. They come closer. I feel weight on my waist. It is a hand. The jacket prevents any direct touch. I pretend to sleep, but know they will not leave. Don't do this and leave me alive...

I hear a muffled groan and sounds of struggle: a second look and the people have gone.

Commander throws water on me to wake me up. "Stop sleeping with the damn horse. I'd set up a tent for you last night. If you wouldn't have ran off without a trace then I would have escorted you to it." His knuckle is swollen and purple. Another multicoloured bruise runs down the length of his arm. Did you help me? He turns from me and walks away. I know it is time to leave and I pick up the water bucket. I pull the barrels over the horse and tie the rope at his belly. I feel obliged to stay with him and walk sheltered from the gang ahead. It was a dream.

We take a break to let the horse drink and the men drink. Commander comes to tend my feet and wrists. He brings me jerkey and hardtack and I sullenly take it. I chew it steadily knowing it will tire my jaw. "You have sanctuary in me," he says gruffly and makes his leave. I can feel something changing in me. The sky seems a bit brighter now, or perhaps the sun is just at the right angle.

"Kiarra," a man says with a painfully wrong pronunciation. He approaches me and I look intently into my hardtack, making an effort not to see him. He hands me a basket full of vegetables. "These are... regards, from the village over." I look at the vegetables and take the basket in my hands. "Take them to Chef." He smiles at me and I eye him suspiciously. I stand, carrying the basket beneath one arm and holding it from beneath with the other hand. As he walks away, I see a blood smear on the edge of the basket. Regards from the village over.

I near the kitchen tent. The area surrounding it is desolate. This is the only tent up for lunch and the rest of the men are playing games and drinking across the way. I lift the fold and step inside, careful not to let any of the vegetables fall. I cautiously approach Chef who is sitting with his back to me, boiling water. I place the basket down beside him and turn to leave.

Someone grabs my wrist and I turn to see Chef. "Why hello, Kiarra," he says. I nod and try to pull away. "Oh don't be like that now, child. I just need your help cutting these vegetables. There's a lot of men out there that need fed. Now sit with me."

I take a seat, eyeing him carefully. He hands me a knife and I begin peeling and cutting, not taking my eyes from him. He stares at me also, smiling and stirring the water.

"But she's just a child," I hear. The voice is muffled but another responds.

"And what laws do we have which restrict us from so, now?" I dare not remove my eyes from Chef as now he is smiling rather suspiciously. I cut my finger with the tip of the knife and glance down by reaction. In that one moment my guard is down, I am tackled and the knife is pried from my hand. I lean forward to sink my teeth into my attacker but another comes from behind and pushes my head back down to the floor. I try to kick and I'm growling and snarling, but yet another pair of hands restrains my legs.

I can see a face between the fingers of the man holding down my head. He raises his hand to scratch his face and I see a dried blood smear on his thumb. You set me up, you bastard! Deliver the vegetables? You bastard!

I cease my struggle, knowing I have lost. I have lost. Sanctuary! I cry out to Commander in my mind. Sanctuary!

It hurts, it is painful and by the grace of Chef. The humiliation only worsens knowing there are two other men contributing in the act. There is blood on the floor, on their hands, on my inner thighs. I withdraw into myself, trying to lull myself away from it all. My mom smiles at me from the garden as I bring her some water. I take the can of vegetables back inside to wash them. As I return with the empty can she's passed out in the garden...

I frantically sort through my life, through my personal timeline, searching for a lasting memory of peace. I just want to be spirited away.

I feel a horrid pain inside of me and gasp. Chef buries his fingertips in the flesh of my hips, practically grabbing the bone. I follow my brother out hunting. Ever since father died he tries desperately to take his place. With my bow and arrow in hand, I remain in hiding as we hunt the creatures which remain, refusing to leave even after our home turned to sand. I feel so powerful with that bow in hand and I feel as if I am contributing to the family. I feel accomplished. A seemingly weak beast tramples him, breaking his knee. Scared and worried, I remain in hiding. I shakily shoot an arrow at the beast and instead hit a man running towards my brother. Many more come from the distance and my brother tries to crawl towards me; they kill him. I run back home.

I return from my painful memories as the pain begins to numb. I no longer feel hands and other extremities in contact with my skin. I open my eyes slowly. I refuse to move. Chef's rough hand grabs me and forces me up. As he drags me, I grab the handle of the pot with boiling water and sling it at him. The trail of burning water envelopes my hand but splashes across Chef's entire abdomen. He grunts and clenches his teeth, tightening his grip around my arm so hard I think it will break. The skin begins to pull back and peel from my hand and his exposed chest. It continues to singe off until one of the men throws cold water on both of us. The damage ceases.

Chef throws me across the tent and storms toward me. He kicks me in the side hard enough to take my breath away. "This never happened," he demands. I look directly through him. "If only I could kill you... you.. bitch!"

With a rag, I clean myself and shakily pull my clothes back to my body. Chef glares at me as he dresses himself and eventually the men file out of the tent. I begin dressing myself but pause for a moment to listen. "What's going on here, Chef? Boys?" It's the commander. I want to feel betrayed, but I simply clothe myself and feel nothing. I quickly grab the empty pot and place it over the burner.

Commander hastily throws back the door to the tent and peers inside. I pick up the spoon and begin stirring the empty pot. My hasty cover could not hide what had happened. The knife lay within three feet of me with my blood on it. My finger was no longer bleeding. The basket had been knocked over and vegetables are scattered across the floor. He steps in and walks towards me. I slump forward as he nears. He peers into the empty pot and I can feel the shame rush to my face. I look up at Commander, letting the spoon fall in the pot.