Female ✔️

29: all talk

Day one of the week to punishment and all is well and smelling of pungent chemicals and garlic in the kitchen before lunch. Last night in the Cave Cell was cold but at least no one got in. Blu lingered outside the gate complaining of mosquitoes and me getting probably fleas until I growled for him to leave. I didn't stay in the cell and didn't show him the key either, I went up to my rock outcrop and watched the stars swirl and swirl.

I catch Margie's eyes every so often and look into them meaningfully. She has no fear as she looks back, one time she even nods. Whispers are spreading from female to female. No males work in the kitchen. The realization that these words have spread down the hall to the laundry workers and cleaning crews and exploited, murmured from mouth to ear, mouth to ear. I spot lips moving quickly, brushing by another's hair before they move away as if they were never talking in the first place. I wonder if they will keep these secrets from their mates who they have sworn to tell everything to.

"I like what you said." One says to me.

"You have courage. We need courage." Another faceless whisper.

"I want to be something more."

All things I hear, things I want. We are finding common ground, things that pull us together. Still, all I hear is talk. Hidden talk that everyone wants to say, but are more scared to see. It is an unwillingness to act. This rubs me the wrong way.

"Tell your mate you don't appreciate his drunk voice." I tell a female who is complaining that her mate mouths off when he drinks off his special bottle too much. She looks to me sharply, taking in my words, my crouched position pretending to wipe up the floors. More so, I am listening, supplying words that feel like empowerment.

"I won't do that!"

"Why not?" It seems so simple to me, be honest if you don't like something that hurts.

Her growl is angry as she sputters, "He is my mate, a male, he can do what he wants!"

Standing up, a hold the bucket of still clean water and look her in the eyes. My voice is never a low whisper like theirs. I know what I speak of and I know the consequences well. "I want a life where we can say these sorts of things without the fear of our under placement."

Turning away to let this soak into her, maneuvering around the kitchen, speaking to more females.

"Be careful, Montana." Margie says at one point of the morning, hand on my arm, eyes on mine. The will to look into my eyes because she is wise and much larger than me. "Not all these females share your vision. Some see red at the mention of uprising."

A few skittish glances are thrown our way, and for the first time, I notice the glares.

My lip lifts in a snarl, I stare them down.

"I don't think that's the image you want to create either... But, do what you must I guess." Margie grunts and walks to the pot simmering on the stove. I watch her as she checks the heat, stirs the contents, and then replaces the lid. She opens the oven next and the heavenly smell of apple bread waves out in a lush blanket. I think my knees go weak, my mouth is watering. So are my eyes, stinging with the threat of tears. Awash with feelings of loss and the inability to turn away, to duck my chin. The room is suffocating. I stumble out the door and crouch in the grass, fisting it with one hand. Breathe in deep, deeper. I struggle to hold in my wild, keep calm. This is hard.