A Mouse & The Fallen Star

Chapter 19. Aida's moon

Aida sat on the floor with her head leaned back. Creak, creak, creak. The walnut door groaned each time her body pressed against it. Creak, creak, creak. Like an endless melody of bleakness.

Her frustration rose with the waxing moon outside. Aida had waited for the usual rain to return, but it had not for hours. Persistent humidity and low temperature of this land kept the moisture trapped in the bathroom long after the man had left. Aida hated it. His lingering presence. Like a python wrapping its muscles and scales around her neck. Even when Aida closed her eyes and mouth. Even when she held her breath, there was no use.

The man was the embodiment of this place.

His miserable soul—Aida generously assumed that he had one— manifested and encased everything, herself included. Aida was certain: The man suffered. Maybe, not exactly the way she did, but he suffered, nonetheless. Beneath his beautiful façade of many shiny worldly things, the man was empty. He had no one. He loved to sit at his desk for hours, staring at nothing after his attempts to converse with her often failed.

He must be doing it right at this moment.

Aida pulled her long, dirty nest of rust-colored hair with no mercy. Why had she done that? Why had she stopped instead of keeping to her room as she was supposed to? Why must she be so curious?

Why must she step in, then stare?

At him.

At that.

What had done that to him? It must have hurt. It must have hurt a lot...

Why did it matter? They had done the same things to her. Worse, even.

No, his looked worse.

Why did it matter? He was one of them. He looked like them. He thinks like them.

But she didn't know that, did she? She assumed. The man had not whipped her, chained her up, or starved her. He, in fact, had fed her, given her shelter and many unnecessary things. He had tended to her wounds, nursing her back to health. He had kept her from seriously hurting herself. From dying. More than once.

Because she was a piece of property. His. The nice gestures were only tricks to gain her trust.

Why would he need "tricks" on a slave he had already owned? Why did he need her trust? It didn't make any sense. And how many days and nights had it been? He didn't need to prove anything. He could have forced her to do whatever he wanted or simply get rid of her. He could have punished her for all the bites, scratches, punches, and kicks she had thrown his way almost every day, or for nothing at all.

What if it was all a game? The rich were often bored. Boredom and cruelty went hand in hand.

You are disgusting.

Aida bit the back of her hand hard enough to stifle a scream. The insult had come easily. A little too easy. It was aligned with what Aida had trained herself to do when it came to the man. He didn't deserve an ounce of her consideration. Right? He should be punished for the sins of his people. Right?

But was it? The right thing?

Aida looked down at the teeth marks on her wrinkled skin. They resembled tiny crescent moons, mocking Aida and her predicament. She yanked her hair one last time and pushed on her knees to stand up. In the mirror, her reflection stared back. Aida walked toward the object and wiped it with her hand.

The mirror behaved like a small solidified body of water, only much clearer. Behind Aida's perfectly captured weary face and sunken eyes, a pair of intricate wall lamps diligently cast their soft tangerine hue down to the polished checkered floor. The bathroom looked about the same as the last time Aida had been here. It was big. Her whole family's tent could fit in this room. Compared to the rest of the house, it was clean and tidy. Perfectly warm water flew out as Aida turned the golden brass fixtures above the white ceramic tub. She had mastered it after a few times the man had forced her to learn.