Romanowski and Rosemary

19. Revenge of Chryseis

Coretta

Rusty chains clattered against the ground as hordes of slave women shackled in them, moved ahead to get their food. A piece of hard bread and watery soup.

The food arena was in shambles, only having the burnt whiff of wood turning to charcoal. With mountain-like men shouting to get going.

A large uneven bowl in hand, I shifted with the flock of starving women in a queue. The iron chains around my neck and hands flaked with rust, dirtying my skin more than it already was.

The sight of the food would've repulsed me like never before, but now it didn't.

At this stage, I needed food, like oxygen.

Settling in a hall full of women slaves, I observed the place. Poor, innocent women hoping to become priestesses were being subjected to such harsh lives. My hand moved up my arm, feeling the uneven skin as I chewed on a hard piece of bread. A soup as bland as water lay beside. But as long as my body was benefiting from it, making my strength return, I didn't care.

It still hurt as I lifted my arm. The day was no more than a nightmare. After they'd made the mark with the burning knife, they immediately poured a cool, viscous liquid, like oil, onto my bleeding arm. It did bring temporary relief, but later, I found it was used to harden the slave mark in place and not let the body's platelets to naturally cure the wound.

I glanced at it again, but after all this time of bearing it, tears clouded my eyes at the charred sight. I didn't die from the slave mark. And if Aarmen's hypothesis was true, this disgusting mark was to travel with me to my world.

Such ever-increasing anger and hate was filling me for these people, who did unimaginable brutalities in the facade of being a priest, to be close to God, that my body shook with rage. It was only when a nearby enslaved woman, confused, tapped me, did I find the hard bread turned to smithereens in my palm.

If I got the chance with Aphrodite's mercy, I'd love to punch that Nael, really hard before I departed anywhere. That despicable man ought to know that he shouldn't have messed with a 21st-century woman.

Days came and passed by, with them doing nothing but feeding us and teaching slave etiquette. Something about skinny slaves not having a hefty selling price went about, that they were giving us so much food. But it was gross, nonetheless. It reminded me of animals being fattened up before being taken to a butchery.

Nael occasionally came to check on me, and I had this premonition that he was really trying to buy me off from his father.

Every night, with my heart in throat, I removed my black contacts to let my poor eyes breathe as I slept. There were so few left, that I tried to clean the already-worn lenses. Which I knew would prove infectious for my eyes. But I had to.

Because I didn't trust the electric compulsion anymore.

There was so much bleeding when they made the slave mark, yet, tinges of electric compulsion were all I'd felt.

Even when the slave master used his whip when I made a mistake, I wouldn't let the tears shed. Because I'd realised, they would make my lens cloudy. And I couldn't afford to throw away the few I'd left. I had three new ones remaining and saved the worn ones for emergencies.

I wondered if the electric compulsion had decided to activate itself only if I was killed... severely...

Closing my eyes, I dabbed them with the clean part of my linen and continued to eat. In the watery soup, I stared at my eyes. Relieved to see the black irises staring back.

"I've written the details of slave life you'd asked me, Coretta." Aarmen messaged me as I continued to eat. This was the thing I liked about our leader. He could do things without the heat of emotions affecting him. I knew he was sad, perhaps feeling helpless, but he did whatever I asked, nonetheless.