Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 117336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
And soap. Shampoo. Conditioner. Some days I think I'd kill for hair moisturizer.
Jewelry is easy to send back. I touch the jewels—so shiny and clean—and then close the box and send them back with the boy. I know it won't be the last thing Azar tries.
The next day is more difficult, though.
The boy returns, this time with an enormous, stuffed-full garment bag slung over his shoulder and a container full of delicious, freshly cooked foods. This time, the breads are some sort of honey-soaked loaf mixed with cinnamon, and there's a thermos of thick venison chili. It's hot as hell outside, but fresh meat is a luxury, and I decide I'm keeping the food. I let the soldier in, and he immediately sets down the garment bag on one of the cots and unzips it.
I falter at the sight of all the beautiful fabrics spilling out. I'm immediately aware of how grimy and worn my clothes are, of the tight fit in the ass and how rough the fabric is. Of the spots that rub against the back of my neck and just how generally uncomfortable it is. It's functional and it covers everything, but it's not…pretty.
And I've always had the stupidest weakness for pretty clothes.
Not stupid enough to give in to Azar, of course. I'm not an idiot and it'd take more than a few frocks to make me become his consort, but that doesn't mean I can't look. I pull the first dress out and…it's gorgeous. A pale yellow chiffon with a low neckline and spaghetti straps spills out into my arms. It's got layers and layers to the skirts, and the bust is little more than a gather from which all the material flows downward. It looks cool and feminine and delicate and completely, utterly not a thing for post-apocalyptic life.
I still want it. Fiercely.
I quell that want and set it aside, though, because no dress is worth dealing with Azar. But I love clothes. I love when they fit just right, I love when expensive fabric rustles and moves with you, and I love how special and beautiful it makes me feel. It's a feeling I thought was gone. Clothing itself is a luxury in the After, and every bit of fabric is used and re-used because we've lost the skills to mass produce clothing. I don't know what will happen when the last bits rot away. Either a lot of people learn how to knit or use a loom in a hurry, or we all run around naked.
There's a pink frilly dress underneath the yellow one, and then a bold orange gown in glistening satin with a single sleeve and a sideways-slanting neckline. Underneath that, there's something with enough white lace to be a bridal gown. It looks like someone raided a dress store, and as much as I'd love to swan about in a gorgeous gown and feel pretty once more, I don't need them. I carefully put the dresses back in the garment bag, zip it up, and shake my head. "I'm not selling out to Azar for a few dresses. You can take these back."
"He wants to know what you want," the soldier blurts.
Oh, I bet he does. I bet he'd love a big old hint, but I'm not giving it to him. Like a lot of women in the After, when shit hit the fan, you did what you had to in order to survive. Back then, I shared the bed of an older man who was good with a gun, got me regular meals, and kept me safe from the roving gangs that raped and murdered indiscriminately. You picked your poison, and I picked sucking one asshole's dick instead of sucking a dozen assholes’ dicks. The moment I could get free from him, though, I did.
I don't plan on returning to that situation ever again. "Tell your boss I want him to go fuck himself."
The soldier sputters. "I'm not going to do that."
I take another bite of the honey-bread, shrug, and toss the garment bag out the door, onto the feet of the men standing guard outside. To the boy, I say, "Unless you're injured, get out."
He leaves, and I'm alone with my raging thoughts and the taste of honey in my mouth.
Azar's good at this game. I'll give him credit.
The next day, a new soldier shows up, this one with a shopping cart full of medicines from a drugstore. I bite my lip at the prescription bottles that are stacked inside the cart, because I could do so much good with these. Naproxen. Albuterol. Amoxicillin. Epi-pens. Three kinds of birth control and a stack of morning-after pills. Doesn't matter that they're all long-expired. If someone's bad enough, I'm willing to roll the dice on medicating them. I sigh with regret at the bandages, rubbing alcohol, and cold medicines. I can use all of this, but I know it doesn't come without strings attached. I’m not naïve. I know how this works. I shake my head and step away from the cart. "Tell Azar if he was a good man, he'd give me these things without expecting anything. But since he does, you can just take them back."