Gilead

There was a time when women were able to choose. “We were a society dying.” Aunt Lydia would say, “of too much choice. We know the sacrifices you are expected to make,” she’d say. “It is hard when men revile you.”

Heresy. That’s what they’re hanging for. Not for being part of the Resistance because officially, there is no resistance. Not for helping people escape because officially, there is no such thing as escape. They hang for being heretics, not martyrs. Martyrs inspire. Heretics are just stupid. Was I being stupid?

Mother, I think, wherever you may be, can you hear me? You wanted a women’s culture. Well, now there is one. It isn’t what you meant, but it exists. And here’s what we do. We watch them. The men. We study them. We feed them. We please them. We can make them feel strong or weak. We know them that well. We know their worst nightmares. And, with a bit of practice, that’s what we’ll become. Nightmares. One day, when we’re ready, we’re coming for you. Just wait.

I was wrong. It’s not your funeral after all. Do you even know who she was? No, sir.

I used to be bad at waiting. “They also serve who stand and wait,” Aunt Lydia said. She also said, “Not all of you will make it through. Some of you will fall on dry ground or thorns. Some of you are shallow-rooted. Think of yourselves as seeds. What kind of seed will you be, girls?” I pretend I’m a tree. And I wait.

What will happen when I get out? I probably don’t have to worry about it, because there probably is no out. “Gilead knows no bounds,” Aunt Lydia said. “Gilead is within you. Like the spirit of the Lord.” Or the Commander’s cock. Or cancer.

One or two? Two. Two or three? Three. Three or four? About the same? Three. Fifth line clear? Even a little bit of the bottom line? Yes. Better now...or worse? Better? Worse? Worse? Better? Worse? Better? Worse? Better? Worse?