Post by alison on Aug 13, 2009 16:24:19 GMT -8
11:52 pm
December 29. 2010
When the clocks had chimed eleven o'clock, Alison had found that the kitchen was empty of Death Eaters or slaves, and that was where she had found her sanctuary. She didn't know if slaves were allowed to be up this late, but the kitchen was close to the slave quarters, and she thought that, if she heard someone, she would be able to escape in time. But now, at least for a few minutes, she needed some time alone.
Alison had always loved her mother's kitchen. Ali had learned to cook when she was nine years old, and she could almost smell the chicken broth that her mother used to make herself, boiling down the bones from that night's dinner. It filled her with homesickness, filling up her chest and lungs with a hollow sort of pain, until it seemed to overflow and pour from her eyes as tears. Ali drew in a sharp breath, forcing herself to be quiet so no one could hear her. Ali's body was shaking, and panic had already built up the moment she had arrived in the Puxley Manor. She made her way over to the cutting table, crawling underneath. Alison sat on the floor, sliding herself to the corner, leaning against the wall and a stove. Chewing on her lip, she took tight hold of the table leg, trying to force back the tears. Ali curled up against herself, shutting her eyes tight.
Today had been horrible. She had been woken up early as the female slaves around her hurried to start the day's work, lest they be tortured for it. The slave quarters were dark and dirty, and they smelled of human waste and body odor. The mattress she slept on was hard and lumpy, and the night before she had seen blood on it. No one had bothered to explain to her what was going on or what to do, but as she hurried out of the quarters, a rough hand had taken her arm had dragged her to the basement. There she had washed clothes, furniture and magical items, some of which had screamed or exploded. One had burned her hand, then broke, and a harsh man had appeared, yelling, bringing a whip down on her back hard. Ali had screamed, cowering, and he had whipped her again before giving her a rough kick in the legs and ordering her to get back to work.
Then she had cooked dinner, which had been the best part of the day. Although it was dirty and she was pushed and yelled at, there was no man with a whip. Alison knew how to cook, and she was good at it, so there had been no punishment, and no attention drawn to her, either. The other slaves simply ignored her, mumbling a word or so once and a while to tell her what to make.
After a meager meal, she had cleaned the dishes. The water was very hot and she had been slapped by one of the slaves for dropping a dish in the sink after someone had run into her. But by then the wounds from her whip had begun to move past being half-numb and searing to feeling like white-hot irons were being pressed into her back, the wounds being pulled and stretched each time she moved.
So she could hardly be blamed for her position, curled up in a corner underneath the kitchen table. Her thoughts wandered briefly to the slave who had written her that letter; she had written back, but hadn't had the chance to go back. He said not to trust anyone, and so she wouldn't. But, at least, she could trust herself.
December 29. 2010
When the clocks had chimed eleven o'clock, Alison had found that the kitchen was empty of Death Eaters or slaves, and that was where she had found her sanctuary. She didn't know if slaves were allowed to be up this late, but the kitchen was close to the slave quarters, and she thought that, if she heard someone, she would be able to escape in time. But now, at least for a few minutes, she needed some time alone.
Alison had always loved her mother's kitchen. Ali had learned to cook when she was nine years old, and she could almost smell the chicken broth that her mother used to make herself, boiling down the bones from that night's dinner. It filled her with homesickness, filling up her chest and lungs with a hollow sort of pain, until it seemed to overflow and pour from her eyes as tears. Ali drew in a sharp breath, forcing herself to be quiet so no one could hear her. Ali's body was shaking, and panic had already built up the moment she had arrived in the Puxley Manor. She made her way over to the cutting table, crawling underneath. Alison sat on the floor, sliding herself to the corner, leaning against the wall and a stove. Chewing on her lip, she took tight hold of the table leg, trying to force back the tears. Ali curled up against herself, shutting her eyes tight.
Today had been horrible. She had been woken up early as the female slaves around her hurried to start the day's work, lest they be tortured for it. The slave quarters were dark and dirty, and they smelled of human waste and body odor. The mattress she slept on was hard and lumpy, and the night before she had seen blood on it. No one had bothered to explain to her what was going on or what to do, but as she hurried out of the quarters, a rough hand had taken her arm had dragged her to the basement. There she had washed clothes, furniture and magical items, some of which had screamed or exploded. One had burned her hand, then broke, and a harsh man had appeared, yelling, bringing a whip down on her back hard. Ali had screamed, cowering, and he had whipped her again before giving her a rough kick in the legs and ordering her to get back to work.
Then she had cooked dinner, which had been the best part of the day. Although it was dirty and she was pushed and yelled at, there was no man with a whip. Alison knew how to cook, and she was good at it, so there had been no punishment, and no attention drawn to her, either. The other slaves simply ignored her, mumbling a word or so once and a while to tell her what to make.
After a meager meal, she had cleaned the dishes. The water was very hot and she had been slapped by one of the slaves for dropping a dish in the sink after someone had run into her. But by then the wounds from her whip had begun to move past being half-numb and searing to feeling like white-hot irons were being pressed into her back, the wounds being pulled and stretched each time she moved.
So she could hardly be blamed for her position, curled up in a corner underneath the kitchen table. Her thoughts wandered briefly to the slave who had written her that letter; she had written back, but hadn't had the chance to go back. He said not to trust anyone, and so she wouldn't. But, at least, she could trust herself.