Sometimes in the late afternoon when my basket is empty I stop beside the fountain in the great square and climb up on the edge. No one pays me much attention there, I am just another slave of Ar and less pretty then most. I set the faded yellow basket beside me and slip my feet in the cool water. I am pleased to take such small pleasures these days. Life is not as crazy as it once was.
Sometimes I see her, Eliza.. or puddin' foot as I heard her called. She is still chubby but pretty now. Prettier then I am, I think. Her skin is like fine china and her hair so black it's nearly purple in the light. I saw her smile once, she had angry red whip bites along her calves. I wanted to run to her and throw myself at her feet. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, how it was all my fault. The only thing that held me back was my hair. It's the only thing that gets me much attention and I did not want the Baker to cut it again. If I spoke to Eliza, or made another scene in public she would surely shave me bald. Her other slave is bald.
My feet swish in the water, rippling my reflection. I like it that way, rippled. I do not want to see my self. Don't get me wrong though, I don't suffer form low self esteem and I do not feel sorry for myself. My life is happy enough. I am rarely beaten anymore, I have curves under the clean cotton I wear. I may still not be a mans slave or wear fine things.. but things could be worse. They have been before. Looking at myself though.. is hard for me. I still want to be so much more then I am. I still do not know what part I am missing. When I wiggle my hips and toss my hair like the other girls.. I look silly. Men pat me on the head or make fun of my freckles.
My reflection settles again and this time I leave it, watching my face shimmer in the water. There have been men I think I lived, known of them I knew very well but still.. I loved them. The man in the tower, the painter and his lover, the thief from Port Kar and the barbarian man.. the one with drawings all over his body, who I called a slave and probably made him hate me forever. It was him I thought of the night Eliza was sold.. when I didn't know what would happen to me, didn't know how to beg a man to buy me. I looked for him but did not find him. The Baker found me instead and decided I would work of Eliza's debts in the kitchens of her shop and on my feet in the public gardens. That's why I have a basket covered in pretty checkered cloth. I'm the pastry girl, I sell tarts. Ironic, isn't it?
On the back of my yellow sack dress there are big brown block letters proclaiming me property of the Twisted Tarn Bakery. I am a lucky girl really. I am happy. I laugh and smile.. but I am lonely.. empty. Something's still missing, something will always be missing.
I pull my feet up, resting my heels on the edge of the pool, the backs of my ankles pressed tight to the curve of my ass. Freckled arms, more shapely then they had been, hug my shins and I rest my chin on my right knee and tilt my head so my pretty red gold locks, thick with waves, falls over my side like a curtain. I don't have very long before I am expected back and I want to soak up every second of this moment.
Sometimes I see her, Eliza.. or puddin' foot as I heard her called. She is still chubby but pretty now. Prettier then I am, I think. Her skin is like fine china and her hair so black it's nearly purple in the light. I saw her smile once, she had angry red whip bites along her calves. I wanted to run to her and throw myself at her feet. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, how it was all my fault. The only thing that held me back was my hair. It's the only thing that gets me much attention and I did not want the Baker to cut it again. If I spoke to Eliza, or made another scene in public she would surely shave me bald. Her other slave is bald.
My feet swish in the water, rippling my reflection. I like it that way, rippled. I do not want to see my self. Don't get me wrong though, I don't suffer form low self esteem and I do not feel sorry for myself. My life is happy enough. I am rarely beaten anymore, I have curves under the clean cotton I wear. I may still not be a mans slave or wear fine things.. but things could be worse. They have been before. Looking at myself though.. is hard for me. I still want to be so much more then I am. I still do not know what part I am missing. When I wiggle my hips and toss my hair like the other girls.. I look silly. Men pat me on the head or make fun of my freckles.
My reflection settles again and this time I leave it, watching my face shimmer in the water. There have been men I think I lived, known of them I knew very well but still.. I loved them. The man in the tower, the painter and his lover, the thief from Port Kar and the barbarian man.. the one with drawings all over his body, who I called a slave and probably made him hate me forever. It was him I thought of the night Eliza was sold.. when I didn't know what would happen to me, didn't know how to beg a man to buy me. I looked for him but did not find him. The Baker found me instead and decided I would work of Eliza's debts in the kitchens of her shop and on my feet in the public gardens. That's why I have a basket covered in pretty checkered cloth. I'm the pastry girl, I sell tarts. Ironic, isn't it?
On the back of my yellow sack dress there are big brown block letters proclaiming me property of the Twisted Tarn Bakery. I am a lucky girl really. I am happy. I laugh and smile.. but I am lonely.. empty. Something's still missing, something will always be missing.
I pull my feet up, resting my heels on the edge of the pool, the backs of my ankles pressed tight to the curve of my ass. Freckled arms, more shapely then they had been, hug my shins and I rest my chin on my right knee and tilt my head so my pretty red gold locks, thick with waves, falls over my side like a curtain. I don't have very long before I am expected back and I want to soak up every second of this moment.
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