Angel of Mercy

Chapter 6

As the days passed, I settled into a routine, always careful to be perfect.In the mornings I rose earlier then everyone else to prepare breakfast for everyone. I then cleaned, washing clothes, sweeping, dusting what ever. I served lunch at exactly one o'clock, baked in the afternoon, before supper and bed.

Soon, I started to learn things about my captures, chiefly that however deluded their idea's were, they believed them. And would fight tooth and nail to protect and defend them. The other things I learnt were smaller, less important. Names, the old man was called Isaac, the woman Mary, and T.D.B.O actual name was called (however ironically) Emmanuel. I also learnt that this group of people wasn't alone, there were others who believed the same, how many I didn't know. I would see them, come for dinner and then go up to the to the study, sequestered up in that stuffy room for hours on end.  They all had the same reaction as Isaac upon seeing me. Exclamations of dismay, often followed by hopeful questions, all translating as "Come join the dark side". I always stopped myself from asking if they had cookies (they did, I made them), instead shaking my head and retreating to the kitchen.

I planned to escape at the first opportunity, I gathered supplues, food, water canisters, even a blanket I fixed after Mary threw it out, saying it was 'unsalvageable'. I knew roughly where we were, and could find my way home ,but, the front door was kept locked, always. I hadn't been outside since I first came to the house, which was a punishment in its self. I missed the smell of the outdoors, the skicky tree sap and the scent of crushed leaves mixed with mud. I missed the sound of water flowing in a river, missed seeing it and wishing that I could be that free. Dancing and rushing all over, splashing others uncaring of the consequences, singing my own song, beautiful because it was

so full of joy, as loud as I wanted to.

At the beginning of the third week, sick of Mary's constant slurs about my job, clever comments about Angels and mercy, I mean really! I see the irony, but if you understood the job you would that there was no irony because we were merciful!  I escaped into my room, and started to stretch out when Owin walked in carrying a bundle of material.

"You only had two dresses and I thought you could make new ones, maybe." He blushed and I wanted to hug him. He was so sweet, always thanking me for meals, opening doors,  smiling if we passed in the corridor. I shook out the duck egg blue cotton and made declarations of adoration, before hugging him tightly. I already had the dress planned out in my mind, simple, I couldn't make anything complicated without a pattern, but pretty. Mary wore scandalous short skirts and shorts most of the time, looking down on my attire, especially the green dress, which was the height of fashion back home (the medieval style had recently made a come back) but hopeless out dated here. And my uniform? Well, let's just say that I no longer wore it when not absolutely necessary. I knew that the prettier I looked, the harder it would be for her to hate my dresses.

I allowed myself a small gleeful smile as I imagined her face, all shocked and speechless. Owin laughed softly,

"I missed the bad you, you're acting so... perfect. Why, I haven't heard a single sarcastic comment in all time we been here"

I blushed, and made some excuse about the stress of the journey and how I hadn't been myself.

"Why do you hid her, you, I mean?"

Normally, I would pretend not to understand him, question him with a sweet smile, until embarrassed he changed the subject, but I was tired. Tired of hiding who I was.

"Because, people want to see a perfect person, they need to know that there is someone who is perfect. Someone who smiles sweetly and never says anything rude or controversial, follows all the rules. It gives faith in our, my  society

Because caring has two means. Perfect me cares for the prisoners, she listens to their problems, dresses their wounds, helps them to the loo, she seems to empathize, to care on an emotional scale. And those prisoners need that, so much. As much as they need bandages and pain relief. They need to know that someone is on their side.

But real me, locked away, doesn't care for them, feels nothing for them, because of I let myself care, emotionally, I'd get hurt. Because they all die.

Because my society is as close to perfect as it gets and the real me. She doesn't fit into this society. "

He smiled sadly at me and I felt like he understood. As he walked off, out of the room I knew I had a friend.

A week later, we were visited by two Americans often the rebels were from other countries, not seeing, a woman named Hope and a man, George. As always, I answered the door, and introduced myself as Angle. As always they went into rants about the group's image and irreparable damage to their reputation. Mary came down to greet, she had taken up the mantle of 'Lady of the House'. Hope frowned at the top Mary was useing as a dress before giving a pointed look at my new one.

This look of approval warmed my heart and I smiled at Hope. My dress was duck egg blue and I had made it myself, something that, whilst I knew how to do, I had never done.

I retreated to the kitchen, making drinks and serving food. The conversation at dinner was....enjoyable. Nothing political, just intellectual chat about books, plays, witty comments about the author, insightful interpretations of plot lines. At home, I had these talks with James, and dreamed of the day we were married and could chat like this everyday.

I felt a wave of sadness wash over me thinking of my match. I loved him, completely and utterly adored him. He knew the me I kept hidden, always had, and it had been no surprise to find out that we were matched. I missed him. I knew that he would be mad with worry, terrified that I was dead, or perhaps even worse, lost, never to be found again.

It was as I was thinking this, as if directed by my thoughts, the conversation turned to matches. This seemed to be Hope and George's main problem with society, lovless, forced marriage. Mary turned to me and asked about my match, eyes filled with malicious intent, clearly wanting a dispassionate response filled with statistics and facts. Instead my voice filled with emotion and my eyes with tears. Hope shot me a look of such empathy as I stood and ran from the room. I left a shocked silence behind before Hope and George left. My display had proved that the marriages must be happy, so clear was my love for James. Hope said it reminded her of how she talked about George.

I felt a flicker of hope at that moment. If one rebel could see it, then couldn't they all?