Prison of Beauty

The Reason Love is Forbidden

Raven's POV

"Hi," says the super hot and attractive guy standing in front of my door.

"Hey, what's up?" I ask. Don't be surprised that I can talk like a normal person, I mean, why's being stuck inside of a super heated wall and having to pay men to impregnate me because as a woman, bearing children is the only way to survive make me talk less like a teenager?

"Just looking for love, though I haven't found any until you," he says with a gorgeous wink. A wink that's way too gorgeous, I note. That's the wink and effortless pickup line of a guy who gets more food for his sperm by making women feel special. I would bet my factory produced carrots for an entire week -- no, make that a month -- that he's even an all-nighter and would make the impregnating very enjoyable for both him and the woman.

So while in my head I rolled my eyes and wanted to say, "Yeah, and what pickup line and facial do you have planned for Tuesday?" Instead, I keep my smile plastered to my face and look down, letting my hair cover the left side of my face, as if I were hiding a blush.

"So, why don't we look at wherever that lovely aroma is coming from and enjoy ourselves in your room?" He asks, flashing his pearly whites. The only sign that he's faking is the way he blinks like a very tired old man. It must be exhausting, doing . . . that for every meal.

"Well, I surely wouldn't mind that, but there's not much supper left," I say, as if I truly regret it, for my mother's sake, since I'm damn sure she's listening through wherever she's hiding. Under my breath, I add, "Meet me at the abandoned animal shelter on the east side of Gen at 24:15, and I'll make sure to bring you some of what you're faking all this for."

"Well that's a shame, ma'am," he says in a flirty voice, as if he understands the first part was only meant for unseen ears. He gives me a quick nod, grateful glance, and then, just as he's turning around and shutting the door as if disappointed, he whispers "Takes one to know one."

~~~

I head towards the abandoned animal shelter, carrying a bundle of food and drinkable water wrapped in a sweater. I look at what were once doors and let a single tear at the unfairness of it all escape my eye before I quickly catch it in my hand and press it to the floor. I always do this, showing that someone still grieves what has happened, how humans have taken over nature, and that somebody still cared about more than being a slave. I quickly bite myself in a familiar spot, tearing off the freshly dried blood and squeezing out a new drop, mixing it with the tear to show that somebody still believes humans should pay the price for the pain they've caused. I perform this little ritual for, I don't know, maybe God, lost lives, or unfairly treated animals, but also for myself, to remind me not to stop being different and standing up for what's right. My brother taught me this. He's the whole reason I'm helping this guy; he reminds me of Rico.

"What's with the blood sacrifice?" I hear a rich, deep voice ask. I look up and see the guy from my house (I don't know his name, and him not telling me probably means he doesn't want to make things too personal, which reminds me all the more of Rico . . .) leaning sexily against the crumbling wall of the abandoned animal shelter.

I silently rise from my crouch and toss the food to him, followed shortly by the water. I then turn on my heel and walk down the ragged street, away from the once clean and white but now crumbling and grayish wall and the startled guy forced to have sex for a living using it as support.

~~~

"Ow!" I huff. "I get you want me to get up, but seriously, hitting mean the head with a fucking ladle?" I grumble at my sister, Nicole.

"Mom said to get you outta bed, no matter at what cost," she replies, shrugging, not a single sign of guilt on her pretty features.

"And you couldn't have just nudged me or something?" I complain, rubbing my head and snuggling back into the covers.

"But where's the fun in that?" she asks, and raps me on the finger with the fiber ladle. You have NO IDEA how much being hit in the knuckles hurts, let me tell you! I jump out of bed and tackle her to the ground, stealing the ladle and hitting her butt repeatedly.

"Girls . . ." We jump up at the sound of our mother's voice, looking at each other sheepishly.

"She started it," I state oh-so-maturely.

"You told me to wake her up however I can," Nicole defends even more maturely.

"Well, you girls are going to have to grow up! You know that mature and lady-like women make the best mothers! What would your sons think, Nicole?" With that, my mother storms out the room. Mentioning Nicole's sons was a new low, even for mom. I look into Nicole's light blue eyes to see the tears where I knew they would be; held in, unallowed to move past the invisible barrier right before her lower lashline. They hang there, suspended, unable to break free. I close the door and say quietly, "You can let it go, just make sure to be quiet. I'll make sure nobody comes in." Shooting me a grateful smile, Nicole lets the tears stream down her face.

"Mother, my shirt has a hole in it, Nicole will help me mend it, we'll be right down," I shout through a crack in the rusty metal wall. I then rip a little hole in my shirt and start mending it with Nicole, knowing doing something familiar like this would help calm her down. While I watch our fingers working perfectly together, the black thread and silver needle flashing back and forth, Nicole whispers, "My first son is about thirteen years old now. I was his age when he was born. I've been having sons for so long, every year . . ." I watch her tears splash onto my shirt, and cradle her head in my arms.

"I know, Nicole. I know," I whisper. I'm racked with guilt, knowing that Nicole does what she does to support her family, that she does it so I won't have to do it to survive. I wipe her tears away, put on my newly-mended shirt, and wipe Nicole's tears away with our thin blanket while she tidies up her ruffled hair.

We climb down the rickety latter from our room in the loft, to see our mother and father sitting at the table. "Hello, Nicole," he says, wrapping his arms warmly around his daughter. He then sits back down, and says, "Raven," with a cool nod and an icy voice.

"Father," I reply just as coldly, and mirror his stiff nod. I sit down and eat the couple pieces of carrots I have, though I slip half of it down my shirt, where there is a bag attached.

My mother looks in my direction, her unnaturally dark eyebrows furrowed. I try not to hold my breath or to panick. "Don't gobble your food down, it will last longer if you eat slower," she says, shooting another glance at my empty plate.

"Yes, mother."

After breakfast, I head towards a section of the wall where nobody ever goes. I tear open that one spot again, and fling a drop of blood towards the wall, watching it sizzle and evaporate. That's what the wall does to me, to all of us; it boils is down until we're nothing, nothing but tainted air for the filthy government!

I spin on my heel and walk back towards the place I'm supposed to call home, but really, a bird nest in a bird cage can't be that much of a home, can it?

That evening, after doing the same during lunch (we had potatoes, two slices for me, four for everyone else) and dinner, for which we had meat, a rarity, though I never eat it. I don't want to kill to draw life, it's not fair. Neither is anything here, but I don't want to be just as bad as the government.

In bed now, I listen to my sister's calm breathing. Father just left for "work", so I don't need to worry about him. I get out of bed, not having to worry about my mother or sister, since they both sleep as deeply as I do. I tread down the latter and out the door, closing it softly behind me. I head towards the animal shelter, look around, and when I see that no one is looking, I pull the package of two half meals and one full one out, and set it in front of the wall. I perform another ritual, and sneak back to bed.