2018-08-15: Claire A month later
She has learned so many things she never knew were important before, in here among the broken or breaking women, among the brutal guards and the poisonous fumes.
That one doesn’t miss the sun if there are other things to care about, until your hair starts falling out. But then again, that’s not important for long either. That hunger passes from that acute cramping to a dull, aching listlessness after a while. That there’s a difference between pain of the outer flesh, and pain that goes deeper, inside. That one doesn’t have to worry about peeing blood if only the hurt across the lower back fades in a day or two (and if it doesn’t, you’ll be taken away as soon as the fever starts). That cigarettes may be hard cash in a place like this, sure, but not like tampons. That a woman can kill another woman for a few pieces of rolled-up cotton. That some men will stand laughing on the safe side of the bars while that happens. That she herself will fight with broken nails and dirty teeth to protect her own meager supplies. Because she might need it still, before she dies.
And that the bliss of being ranked high enough to get one of the last workstations can only be measured in the fumes of forgetting that comes with it.
But always, the guards. Their steel pipes. Their guns. Their fists. You can’t go too deep into the fumes, not if you want to live. And if you sneak a taste of the raw product and get caught… When that happens, no one raises a hand or a word to make them stop. She doesn’t either. Just presses herself against the cage bars at the far side until the screaming ceases and the stupid woman has stopped moving. Then, staying low and out of sight to not have to carry the remains to the pit out back. Because the shoveling is so gruesome under the relentless sun, no matter your hair or teeth falling out for lack of it otherwise. And if you faint, you fall in amongst the dead and then you’re not let up again. She’s seen it happen.
El Yayo walks above them on his grated platform, his collected appearance a stark contrast to the bruises and dirt covering his chemists. She never looks up, has learned the telltales of the guards instead. When he’s there, they’re stricter. Harsher. If they could ever be said to be lenient, of course. Shifting, nervous glances up top. When that starts, she slumps her shoulders and shuffles along a bit faster, eyes fastened on the sand covered floor and hair hanging down to shield her face. Perhaps he knows her anyway. Perhaps he’s forgotten her. It doesn’t matter; her life is in his hands. In a nod, even.
Time doesn’t exist in here. If there’s some kind of measurement, it would only be between meals, or between the start and finish of a work shift. Or between finish and the start of the next. Between violence. And lately, it seems there’s more of that. Maybe it’s just her imagination. Or maybe her desperation has risen enough to make her more of a target, more visible. Not good.
Her arms and legs are a study in colors, everything from rawest red to darkest black and greenest yellow. Her fingers are painted in blotchy patches, from acids and bases splashing on unprotected skin, and she’s lacking parts of several nails from the fighting. Her face is puffy in places and too gaunt in others. It hurts to breathe, hurts to lie on either side, or on the back, or on the front. Hunger is a constant companion, sometimes masked by the diffuse ache that is interlaced with sharp stabs of pain that comes from hits to her soft middle. It affects her work pace, of course. Pain and exhaustion is all there is. She shuffles through it, can’t even muster up the energy to lie down and die.
So when they come for her, she doesn’t struggle. Maybe now she can rest, stop hurting, stop being hungry, stop being afraid. It would be a blessing. She closes her eyes, and let them drag her along, to wherever they’re going. Out back, probably. By the pit. Yes.
But instead, the sun’s glare dwindles and the heat is exchanged for temperate coolness. It surprises her enough to look up, a stab of fear shooting through her system despite everything. Only El Yayo enjoys the luxury of sub-thirty degrees. And through swollen eyelids, she realizes that she’s been taken to a bathroom. Unceremoniously they dump her there, on clean tiles that almost blind her as she hears the door click shut behind her. What is this?
Certain it’s a trap of some kind, she remains in a heap on the floor for a long time. Until she starts shivering from the cold, and hurt too much to be still. The silence is deafening, loneliness crushing after so long without any form of privacy at all. Tentatively, she crawls into the shower. There’s no curtain or anything, but it doesn’t matter. Everything is so sparkling clean, and quiet, and… real. Reaching as far as she can, gasping through the broken rib that’s been with her for a long time now, she manages to turn the knob. Warm, fluid water crashes down on her face and she gasps again, this time in shock and disbelief and utter joy. She dares to cry, for among the jets of water, her tears are invisible.
She washes, luxuriates in the warm water and feels her strained limbs relax just a tiny bit. Runnels of brown and red flow from her into the drain, bringing sand and crusts of blood and remains of drug ingredients with them. After a while, she manages to get out of the tattered clothes she’s still wearing, and finds a soap on a shelf. It smells like soft flowers and gentle hands and butterflies at dusk, and she scrapes at her skin until she’s sure she can’t get more grimy layers off. Then she just stands there, head hanging, until the water dwindles on its own and she realizes that there are guards waiting outside and that this probably comes at a cost.
Stepping out, she finds a towel that’s ridiculously white and fluffy. Wrapping herself inside it, she feels smaller than she’s ever done in her entire life. Maybe she can disappear inside it, vanish among the folds and be forgotten by the cruel world outside. But no, she’s only too aware that it doesn’t work like that. So she dries herself and hisses at each forgotten bruise or gash, and averts her eyes from the ugly appearance of her marked skin compared to the towel. A new set of clothes on a bench makes her cry again; dry, quiet sobs that won’t stir the guards. The feeling of soft, warm and clean cloth falling over her battered body is one she will want to keep in memory forever, so she tucks it carefully away in a small corner of her brain where nothing but darkness has resided until now.
Only then does she knock on the door, timidly announcing that she’s ready. It’s a lie, of course. She has no idea what awaits now, no idea if she’s done what they wanted. Or if this is yet another cruel trick, that all this was a respite that will make the coming abuse seem even worse in comparison. Powerless, she follows them. Wondering briefly how far she would get if she ran, and if the gunshots would hurt too much before she died.
And then they open another door, finely carved and in heavier wood than the rest around here, and she’s shoved inside. Caught unawares, she stumbles and falls, into the presence of El Yayo.
“So this is where I die.” The thought moves through her head of its own accord, flashing in brilliant clarity and then gone. There’s no fear, only resignation. She sees the tips of his shoes come into her field of vision, sparkling as if someone just polished them. She wonders who does that, if he has a certain person just to shine his shoes before important tasks. Or unimportant, for that matter. She closes her eyes, ready for whatever it will be. At least she dies clean.
Her world is turned upside down, however, as he instead reaches down to help her to her feet. He speaks, in his broken English, berating the guards for treating her so roughly. Had she not been too stunned to even breathe, a disbelieving laughter would have wrecked her ribs even further than his attempt at steadying hands. Gasping as the pain forces air out of her lungs, she clings to him, not understanding a single thing. Following as he leads her deeper into the room, offering her a seat in a cushioned, velvet armchair. It enfolds her, as if she didn’t already feel tiny compared to his careless flaunting of power. But she sits obediently still, hands in her lap and hunted, mistrusting eyes constantly moving beneath strands of still wet hair.
With a wide smile, the one she’s seen only in nightmares since last she was in his grip, he takes the identical chair facing hers and sits with legs wide, elbows resting on his knees so as to lean closer to her. “Is good to see you, Claire! It seems there was… a bit of misunderstanding, yes?” His voice is too loud for the space they occupy, his gaze too intent. She knows she has to agree to anything he says, but can’t trust her own voice to carry. She nods, instead. It seems to be enough, and he continues. “Now you’re here, and I think you can make these... “ He reaches into his pocket and she flinches, draws back, ready for what pain he will produce. He ignores her, and procures instead a sheet of paper, folded many times and torn at the edges. She knows it, that page. It was she who wrote the formulas on it, after all. “I think you can make these new drugs work, yes? But not out there, no. That’s no lab for you, Claire! You stay here, in your own rooms, and make me these drugs. You want that, yes?”
Only now, with the sweep of his arm, does she raise her head enough to take in the rest of the room she’s in. What she sees makes her eyes go wide, her mouth fall slightly open. A huge bed, thick mattresses covered in plump covers that look as soft and inviting like a cloud pulled from the sky. Heavy furniture that glistens in the warm lamplight, on top of intricate carpets that must cost a fortune in other places. Large windows with curtains that match those carpets and side tables bearing bottles of wine, pitchers of water, juices and maybe tea or coffee. Bowls of fruits and pastries and biscuits. A cage of songbirds, swaying softly in the breeze from the open doors to the balcony overlooking immense green fields far below. Compared to the concrete floor surrounded by bloodied and rusty iron bars under the stark fluorescent light, among twenty desperate, starving others, this is… unbelievable.
El Yayo laughs at her disbelief, and shakes his head. “Well, of course you won’t be making the drugs in here. Come, I show you!” He seems pleased with himself, almost like a patron doing charity work for the poor. She gets to her feet, staggering at first when dizziness sets in. He either ignores it or doesn’t see, already pulling aside a curtain from what she had believed a wall. Turning to her, he gestures for her to come closer, and she does as if walking under water, or in a dream. “This is your lab!” His wide grin fades from her sight as she steps up and presses her palms against the cool glass separating them from the room next door. It’s a fully equipped chemistry lab, complete with safety-classed fume hoods and gas tubing up to the benches and a multitude of glassware in cupboards with see-through doors and… a lab coat, hanging across the back of a chair as if someone just left it there to go for a coffee break. On the side, above the chest pocket, is embroidered letters. Strange, that she can read them even though her vision is suddenly all blurry.
CLAIRE A
It’s everything she’s tried to get from Gabriel since Georgia. It’s everything she’s ever wanted since starting to work at the company in Canada. Her own lab. Modern, civilized, comfortable. She cannot tear her eyes from it, but thankfully El Yayo doesn’t mind. Talks instead of what he expects from her here, and what freedom she will have in designing and trying out new compounds. That it isn’t freedom at all, is a very small thought at the back of her head. That he will make money from this and keep her as a slave until she can’t come up with anything more to give him, is an even smaller thought. Right now, this is heaven.
“So Claire, you work for me now, yes?” She turns to him, a solemn face carrying the weight of a month of torment and terror. There can only be one answer to this, and he already said it. Still, she begs. “Yes. Please, I will… I will do what you ask. Please let me stay here!” He grins, and nods, and the guards prepare to leave. “Alright. If you do good things for me, you stay here. If not... “
She knows, she knows. He knows that too. As he turns to leave, he promises to return tomorrow so they can talk. And then the door shuts closed behind him, and she’s alone. Surrounded by luxury. Safe. With a heart beating stronger than in a long, long time, full of hope.
Yes, she will do good things for him. But first, she’s going to eat all the fruit she can muster, and drink everything in those pitchers, and sleep in that cloud of soft blankets. All by herself.
That one doesn’t miss the sun if there are other things to care about, until your hair starts falling out. But then again, that’s not important for long either. That hunger passes from that acute cramping to a dull, aching listlessness after a while. That there’s a difference between pain of the outer flesh, and pain that goes deeper, inside. That one doesn’t have to worry about peeing blood if only the hurt across the lower back fades in a day or two (and if it doesn’t, you’ll be taken away as soon as the fever starts). That cigarettes may be hard cash in a place like this, sure, but not like tampons. That a woman can kill another woman for a few pieces of rolled-up cotton. That some men will stand laughing on the safe side of the bars while that happens. That she herself will fight with broken nails and dirty teeth to protect her own meager supplies. Because she might need it still, before she dies.
And that the bliss of being ranked high enough to get one of the last workstations can only be measured in the fumes of forgetting that comes with it.
But always, the guards. Their steel pipes. Their guns. Their fists. You can’t go too deep into the fumes, not if you want to live. And if you sneak a taste of the raw product and get caught… When that happens, no one raises a hand or a word to make them stop. She doesn’t either. Just presses herself against the cage bars at the far side until the screaming ceases and the stupid woman has stopped moving. Then, staying low and out of sight to not have to carry the remains to the pit out back. Because the shoveling is so gruesome under the relentless sun, no matter your hair or teeth falling out for lack of it otherwise. And if you faint, you fall in amongst the dead and then you’re not let up again. She’s seen it happen.
El Yayo walks above them on his grated platform, his collected appearance a stark contrast to the bruises and dirt covering his chemists. She never looks up, has learned the telltales of the guards instead. When he’s there, they’re stricter. Harsher. If they could ever be said to be lenient, of course. Shifting, nervous glances up top. When that starts, she slumps her shoulders and shuffles along a bit faster, eyes fastened on the sand covered floor and hair hanging down to shield her face. Perhaps he knows her anyway. Perhaps he’s forgotten her. It doesn’t matter; her life is in his hands. In a nod, even.
Time doesn’t exist in here. If there’s some kind of measurement, it would only be between meals, or between the start and finish of a work shift. Or between finish and the start of the next. Between violence. And lately, it seems there’s more of that. Maybe it’s just her imagination. Or maybe her desperation has risen enough to make her more of a target, more visible. Not good.
Her arms and legs are a study in colors, everything from rawest red to darkest black and greenest yellow. Her fingers are painted in blotchy patches, from acids and bases splashing on unprotected skin, and she’s lacking parts of several nails from the fighting. Her face is puffy in places and too gaunt in others. It hurts to breathe, hurts to lie on either side, or on the back, or on the front. Hunger is a constant companion, sometimes masked by the diffuse ache that is interlaced with sharp stabs of pain that comes from hits to her soft middle. It affects her work pace, of course. Pain and exhaustion is all there is. She shuffles through it, can’t even muster up the energy to lie down and die.
So when they come for her, she doesn’t struggle. Maybe now she can rest, stop hurting, stop being hungry, stop being afraid. It would be a blessing. She closes her eyes, and let them drag her along, to wherever they’re going. Out back, probably. By the pit. Yes.
But instead, the sun’s glare dwindles and the heat is exchanged for temperate coolness. It surprises her enough to look up, a stab of fear shooting through her system despite everything. Only El Yayo enjoys the luxury of sub-thirty degrees. And through swollen eyelids, she realizes that she’s been taken to a bathroom. Unceremoniously they dump her there, on clean tiles that almost blind her as she hears the door click shut behind her. What is this?
Certain it’s a trap of some kind, she remains in a heap on the floor for a long time. Until she starts shivering from the cold, and hurt too much to be still. The silence is deafening, loneliness crushing after so long without any form of privacy at all. Tentatively, she crawls into the shower. There’s no curtain or anything, but it doesn’t matter. Everything is so sparkling clean, and quiet, and… real. Reaching as far as she can, gasping through the broken rib that’s been with her for a long time now, she manages to turn the knob. Warm, fluid water crashes down on her face and she gasps again, this time in shock and disbelief and utter joy. She dares to cry, for among the jets of water, her tears are invisible.
She washes, luxuriates in the warm water and feels her strained limbs relax just a tiny bit. Runnels of brown and red flow from her into the drain, bringing sand and crusts of blood and remains of drug ingredients with them. After a while, she manages to get out of the tattered clothes she’s still wearing, and finds a soap on a shelf. It smells like soft flowers and gentle hands and butterflies at dusk, and she scrapes at her skin until she’s sure she can’t get more grimy layers off. Then she just stands there, head hanging, until the water dwindles on its own and she realizes that there are guards waiting outside and that this probably comes at a cost.
Stepping out, she finds a towel that’s ridiculously white and fluffy. Wrapping herself inside it, she feels smaller than she’s ever done in her entire life. Maybe she can disappear inside it, vanish among the folds and be forgotten by the cruel world outside. But no, she’s only too aware that it doesn’t work like that. So she dries herself and hisses at each forgotten bruise or gash, and averts her eyes from the ugly appearance of her marked skin compared to the towel. A new set of clothes on a bench makes her cry again; dry, quiet sobs that won’t stir the guards. The feeling of soft, warm and clean cloth falling over her battered body is one she will want to keep in memory forever, so she tucks it carefully away in a small corner of her brain where nothing but darkness has resided until now.
Only then does she knock on the door, timidly announcing that she’s ready. It’s a lie, of course. She has no idea what awaits now, no idea if she’s done what they wanted. Or if this is yet another cruel trick, that all this was a respite that will make the coming abuse seem even worse in comparison. Powerless, she follows them. Wondering briefly how far she would get if she ran, and if the gunshots would hurt too much before she died.
And then they open another door, finely carved and in heavier wood than the rest around here, and she’s shoved inside. Caught unawares, she stumbles and falls, into the presence of El Yayo.
“So this is where I die.” The thought moves through her head of its own accord, flashing in brilliant clarity and then gone. There’s no fear, only resignation. She sees the tips of his shoes come into her field of vision, sparkling as if someone just polished them. She wonders who does that, if he has a certain person just to shine his shoes before important tasks. Or unimportant, for that matter. She closes her eyes, ready for whatever it will be. At least she dies clean.
Her world is turned upside down, however, as he instead reaches down to help her to her feet. He speaks, in his broken English, berating the guards for treating her so roughly. Had she not been too stunned to even breathe, a disbelieving laughter would have wrecked her ribs even further than his attempt at steadying hands. Gasping as the pain forces air out of her lungs, she clings to him, not understanding a single thing. Following as he leads her deeper into the room, offering her a seat in a cushioned, velvet armchair. It enfolds her, as if she didn’t already feel tiny compared to his careless flaunting of power. But she sits obediently still, hands in her lap and hunted, mistrusting eyes constantly moving beneath strands of still wet hair.
With a wide smile, the one she’s seen only in nightmares since last she was in his grip, he takes the identical chair facing hers and sits with legs wide, elbows resting on his knees so as to lean closer to her. “Is good to see you, Claire! It seems there was… a bit of misunderstanding, yes?” His voice is too loud for the space they occupy, his gaze too intent. She knows she has to agree to anything he says, but can’t trust her own voice to carry. She nods, instead. It seems to be enough, and he continues. “Now you’re here, and I think you can make these... “ He reaches into his pocket and she flinches, draws back, ready for what pain he will produce. He ignores her, and procures instead a sheet of paper, folded many times and torn at the edges. She knows it, that page. It was she who wrote the formulas on it, after all. “I think you can make these new drugs work, yes? But not out there, no. That’s no lab for you, Claire! You stay here, in your own rooms, and make me these drugs. You want that, yes?”
Only now, with the sweep of his arm, does she raise her head enough to take in the rest of the room she’s in. What she sees makes her eyes go wide, her mouth fall slightly open. A huge bed, thick mattresses covered in plump covers that look as soft and inviting like a cloud pulled from the sky. Heavy furniture that glistens in the warm lamplight, on top of intricate carpets that must cost a fortune in other places. Large windows with curtains that match those carpets and side tables bearing bottles of wine, pitchers of water, juices and maybe tea or coffee. Bowls of fruits and pastries and biscuits. A cage of songbirds, swaying softly in the breeze from the open doors to the balcony overlooking immense green fields far below. Compared to the concrete floor surrounded by bloodied and rusty iron bars under the stark fluorescent light, among twenty desperate, starving others, this is… unbelievable.
El Yayo laughs at her disbelief, and shakes his head. “Well, of course you won’t be making the drugs in here. Come, I show you!” He seems pleased with himself, almost like a patron doing charity work for the poor. She gets to her feet, staggering at first when dizziness sets in. He either ignores it or doesn’t see, already pulling aside a curtain from what she had believed a wall. Turning to her, he gestures for her to come closer, and she does as if walking under water, or in a dream. “This is your lab!” His wide grin fades from her sight as she steps up and presses her palms against the cool glass separating them from the room next door. It’s a fully equipped chemistry lab, complete with safety-classed fume hoods and gas tubing up to the benches and a multitude of glassware in cupboards with see-through doors and… a lab coat, hanging across the back of a chair as if someone just left it there to go for a coffee break. On the side, above the chest pocket, is embroidered letters. Strange, that she can read them even though her vision is suddenly all blurry.
CLAIRE A
It’s everything she’s tried to get from Gabriel since Georgia. It’s everything she’s ever wanted since starting to work at the company in Canada. Her own lab. Modern, civilized, comfortable. She cannot tear her eyes from it, but thankfully El Yayo doesn’t mind. Talks instead of what he expects from her here, and what freedom she will have in designing and trying out new compounds. That it isn’t freedom at all, is a very small thought at the back of her head. That he will make money from this and keep her as a slave until she can’t come up with anything more to give him, is an even smaller thought. Right now, this is heaven.
“So Claire, you work for me now, yes?” She turns to him, a solemn face carrying the weight of a month of torment and terror. There can only be one answer to this, and he already said it. Still, she begs. “Yes. Please, I will… I will do what you ask. Please let me stay here!” He grins, and nods, and the guards prepare to leave. “Alright. If you do good things for me, you stay here. If not... “
She knows, she knows. He knows that too. As he turns to leave, he promises to return tomorrow so they can talk. And then the door shuts closed behind him, and she’s alone. Surrounded by luxury. Safe. With a heart beating stronger than in a long, long time, full of hope.
Yes, she will do good things for him. But first, she’s going to eat all the fruit she can muster, and drink everything in those pitchers, and sleep in that cloud of soft blankets. All by herself.
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