Our Contract of Distrust

-- 19 --

*Author's note*

Sorry for the delay in publishing this chapter, things have been a little hectic at uni. σ(^_^;) I'll try to get the next update out soon.
And sorry that this one is a little short 😅

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We've been hit by a sudden cold spell. Thankfully, it's done away with the humidity, but it hit so suddenly that I had no time to prepare for it.

Last night had seemed pleasant enough, as nights even in summer can appear. But nothing had suggested that such a chill should grip the house this next morning.

Begrudgingly, I forfeit the warmed sheets and shuffle to the wardrobe in search of my dressing gown. A hand me down from my Nana, now fraying at the edges.

"It's Monday." Feodor says groggily, seemingly reminding himself.

He sighs and pulls the blanket tighter by his neck. "I don't wanna get up."

I look at him with disdainful incredulousness as I slip into my pale pink robe. It's too short for me, looking like some tacky three-quarter design. It had fit my height at 14.

He sighs. "I know, I have to. But I still don't want to."

It seems to me that life is filled with things one must do despite not wanting to.

Work. Tax. Marriage. Photo day.

It was fast approaching, wasn't it?

With another sigh Feodor rolls out of bed. Like literally rolls. It's ridiculous seeing a grown man do so, but he appears to have no self-awareness.

He approaches, stopping but a half-step from me, as if he's trying to absorb my body heat through such proximity. Maybe he is.

He's always strange when half asleep.

"What's bothering you?" He asks, peering into my face. As if I'm not perpetually like this – bitter and anxious.

"Hmm?" He prompts.

And for a split second I consider telling him about photo day. But only for a second, then my stupidity lapses.

"Nothing."

He smiles slightly, in glum acceptance of my rejection.

I wish he wouldn't make such an expression. It almost makes me feel sorry for him.

Almost.

And it makes me overly aware of how close he is, as if he might just reach out and touch me.

Feodor must have had a similar thought, because his hand hovers in my peripheral.

Eventually, it comes to rest on my shoulder, which he gives a light squeeze.

His smile has dissipated, but his expression remains softer than usual.

"Well, if you change your mind..." he says.

I step back and shrug free from his hand.

I'm torn between examining this strange creature and fleeing. After an awkward pause, escape wins out and I head for the kitchen.

I hadn't realised how hard my heart was thumping.

What was with him? He was totally all over the place. Incredibly hard to read. Perplexingly moody, especially for someone relatively expressionless.

Was he begrudgingly fulfilling some duty to get information out of me? (Not so much because he didn't want the information, but because he didn't want to act to get it). Or was he genuinely that awkward?

The former seemed more likely. Didn't it?

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Things are unnaturally tense at the factory.

Which is a hard task to achieve, given that the place always has the atmosphere of a prison.

Today it feels like I've entered a ship lost at sea, with everyone quietly going insane. With everyone steadily dying as they pretend to ignore that fate.

There is a silent acceptance of something wrong.

Likely none of the workers even know what it is, and yet they've resigned themselves to it all the same.

Peggy chatters more than usual. I suppose it's a nervous twitch of sorts. A way of keeping her mind preoccupied.

Occasionally I see Headcho pass by the row in front of me, his face more haggard and unattractive than usual. Which again is a hard task.

I wonder what happened to disturb such a pathetically vainglorious man?

Where was his gloating? His look of contempt? His swagger?

The man appears rather absent. Of himself, that is; he has always appeared rather absent of intelligent thought.

I almost make eye-contact with him once.

Which I can only imagine would have gone down badly, especially in light of the recent bondage episode.

Sometimes I feel that he actually remembers me, albeit as 'Sonia', and it's a disconcerting thought.

Most factory workers are just a nameless face which resembles a dozen others. A demure Peggy or Cassidy, whom one neither hates nor has regard for.

But Headcho's eye catches on me too readily.

I wish I were shorter. Had brown eyes. Hadn't gotten married. Then I could be another Peggy.

Or I could have no name at all.

I could disappear and no-one would bat an eye.