Slave Master (© Biswapriya Purkayastha)
Page 1 The morning’s
light finally filters through the heavy curtains and falls on my closed eyes,
long enough to force me to acknowledge, finally, that I am awake. It’s not much
use turning my back to the windows and falling asleep again. The windows are
all around me; at the most, I can stay asleep for another fifteen minutes, and
that’s not worth all the effort. The curtains, though heavy, are badly drawn, carelessly so.
I had drawn them, myself, before going to bed, hours ago, sloppily as usual. I
usually draw them the last thing before going to bed. It’s not really necessary
to do that; I’m far too high up here for anyone to look in on me. It’s just a
habit. Ever since childhood I’ve never been able to sleep with uncurtained
windows. Every evening I sit up here, on the top floor of this
building, and watch the darkened city streets. I’m too high up to see anything
clearly without a telescope, but I like to just sit back and watch the flashes
of gunshots and the glows of little fires. It gives me an odd sort of satisfaction
sometimes to think of how the life has fled the city; how the flashing
billboards have gone dark and the hurrying masses have gone from the streets. Once or twice I have been tempted to get hold of a high
powered rifle with a telescopic sight and add my little bit to the mayhem that
goes on below. Each time I have fought down the temptation, although getting
hold of the weapon would not be a problem. I know where one can be found, and,
of course, I already own firearms, chief among them a pump-action shotgun and a
9 mm pistol. Everyone who wants to survive these days free has to be armed.
From the next room comes a stirring. It is, of course, my
slave Stenna. I know without opening my eyes that she is gone from my side. She
will have been up since before dawn. Those are my orders, and so far she has
obeyed without question. I acquired Stenna some time ago. It was on one of my
infrequent forays down to the streets. It had been another thick grey overcast
evening, the clouds overhanging the city almost at roof level, but making no
move to lighten themselves by releasing some rain. The clouds were sooty with
the smoke from fires burning out of control across the river. That was where
small crowds of refugees would be forming up now, to find their way out into
the country or somehow, across the shattered bridges to this side. Wherever
they chose to go, it would not get them to safety. There was no safety
anywhere. That evening I had gone down to find clothing. For the time
being I had food enough, something rare and wonderful; also I had more clothes
than I could immediately use, but I wanted to stock up for the future. Once the
gangs discovered even so much as a single piece of cloth or food, it would
disappear. Books, though, were something different – no one had any need for
books, and I could have gathered as many as I ever wanted. The only problem is
that as time goes on I become less and less inclined to risk my life for only a
book. Because, however careful I am, going down to the street is
risking my life. I have to remember this every time I go down. Unless one
remembers this, one doesn’t last long in the city. That evening with sullen clouds hovering overhead, I had
walked down to the street, carefully locking the doors behind me. Back when the
city was alive we would often leave doors unlocked, but those silly trusting
times are long gone now. Everyone has to look out for his or her own security. The streets were silent as usual at that hour. It was the
quiet hour – the ordinary citizens who still scraped a living from the shell of
the town had withdrawn before nightfall, along with the criminals who preyed on
them. They had gone to ground in their apartments, fortified with home made
sandbags and wooden beams. Meanwhile, the gangs hadn’t yet emerged. At night
the city belonged to the gangs. I carried my pistol prominently on my hip. It was my first
line of defence. I did not plan on using it; but anyone who saw it would
probably think twice before taking me on and go looking for easier prey. Back
when I still dared go out at night I would have carried my shotgun too, at the
ready, a shell in the breech and cocked. But going out at night alone is
suicidal now. If the gangs don’t get you, the packs of feral dogs probably
will. [ Continue to page 2 ] |