DEAREST

PART 1: FEAST OF WAR, Ch. 1

1

The wind roars outside the room, and as I watch the burning flames in the fireplace, I give myself the freedom to let out a tear.

It is tiny, like the tip of a match, but at that moment I am under so much tension that crying feels unreal. It's the only thing I allow myself to do. Even so, even though I give myself that freedom, I'm already thinking about what to say if the handmaid who accompanies me notices my reaction.

I would give a stupid excuse like "it must be the fire" and she would go to the fireplace to stir up the flames for me a little.

This tear that descends silently down my cheek feels like the edge of a razor. If it cut my cheek, and the blood dripped, it would fall on this dress which took a few days to prepare because it is not just any dress. For the same reason, because it is not any dress, the handmaid would give me a reproachful look as she tries to clean it as fast as she can so that the fiber does not absorb the blood and stains the fabric permanently. Of course, I would have to take off this dress, and the dressmaker's job would go to waste. My handmaid would have to prepare another dress in a few minutes.

Of course, they would ignore the deep cut on my cheek completely. My handmaid's reproach, the rage she must contain because her stupid lady has not been able to avoid cutting herself, how nervous I've made her while cleaning my dress as the minutes pass faster than she wishes, and the later frustration of the dressmaker... I cannot afford the effects of that chain reaction.

I bring my fingers to my cheek, and I'm surprised to find that I only touch soft, warm, dry skin. The tear has dried.

The door to the Ceremony Room opens, and another handmaid peeks out from the narrow space between the doors. She announces that everything is ready. When I stand up, and turn to her, there is no trace of tears. I avoid showing any feeling through my face.

As we move through the ceremonial hall, my handmaid tries to reassure me by whispering in my ear "It will take very little, you'll see." How long it takes, what this is all about, or how I will end up later is what matters the least to me. I don't look at her because I know she looks at me with that expectant look, like admiration and envy, and although she has behaved excellent towards me and has been more patient than any other handmaid who has served me, I know that it is because she also feels sorry for me. She knows how difficult I am. They all know—or think they know, or, rather, think they understand the concept—how difficult I am until they lose patience, and their pity disappears because it has transformed, perhaps, into a bitter mixture of anger and frustration.

My mother's tall silhouette, sloping to the right, awaits me in the apse. The blue light falling from the dome hits her back, and I cannot see her face. When she moves to tell me to lie down, the lines of light that are created in her silhouette seem an irony to me. She is a sacred image, ready to dissect me.

As I lie down, I feel the cold stone of the altar against my skin and I get a little bit upset. For a moment, my gaze directs itself automatically to the images that decorate the dome: a woman with a black velvet cap and eyebrows so thin and blonde that they become a mere shadow over her eyes in that light, takes the hand of another woman while she leads the way, angels with a happy and bright look that fly over a pale pink sky, mottled with soft and fluffy clouds——

"Is everything all right?"

My mother's face bends over mine, between my sight and the images. I don't answer. She caresses my face with her cold fingers.

The ritual begins.

In order to carry all this out, there should be no one in the room except my mother, who acts as the proxy, and I, the receiver. My handmaid has left, possibly relieved that I didn't try anything else, at least not visibly.