Unknown Omega

Chapter 4 - Her- Unknown

I am surrounded by normality, but I can't shake this feeling that something monstrous and abnormal is creeping close. I've had this nagging feeling before. It's as if a large figure is looming over my shoulder, oozing malicious intent, but when I turn to look, it has vanished.

This feeling has plagued me only a few times in my life. Most recently, it happened the afternoon before the maid never came back from market. I brushed it off, since nothing had ever happened before. A fluke, or coincidence, was the only thing I could chalk it up to. Even after the sensation dissipated and she never returned, I can't believe it's important to my life. My only choice is to ignore it as best as I can.

I pull on my protective covering, ensuring it's tied in front so minimal sand can pass through. As I reach up to pull my head cloth from its hook, the alien feeling increases. My heart thumps in my chest. There can't be someone behind me. I would have heard them enter the kitchen. I turn my head, dreading what I might see behind me. My eyes search my surroundings, but all seems the same as it did a moment ago.

I let out a shaky, exasperated sigh, but the sensation remains. I slip my head cloth on, scoop up some empty sacks, and force my legs toward the little door. Today is market day.

The harsh sunlight glares off the depressing view. Crumbled buildings and half standing structures jut from dilapidated stone walkways and sand. Sand everywhere—in each groove, covering every surface, grinding down every rock, returning everything to the dunes.

I visit the granary, bargaining for what the Chieftess has demanded. The men in these streets would rob, beat, or kill me if I hinted at being the Chieftain's maid, so I am careful with my words and actions. I have a few coins, so they are eager to make business.

The previous kitchen maid was very adamant on ensuring I understood the social nuances in our society. One wrong word to the wrong person, and my throat would be slit. My life would spurt out of me onto the sand, and I'd die like so many other wretches in these streets. She wasn't a gentle teacher, but she had my best interests in mind. She needed the help I provided in the kitchen and did all she could to keep me alive.

Training my gaze on the ground surrounding my path, I hike down market street. I exchange a few coins for a heavy sack of potatoes, and fling that over my shoulder, hating the extra weight.

I stop at the vegetable tender and pick the best ones available. The dirty, squinty eyed man behind the table looks at me suspiciously, but when I pull out the allotted monies, his eyes relax. He nods at me and shoos me away.

Market days are miserable. They leave me with aching muscles, sand all over my skin, blisters on my feet, and bruises on my shoulders—my bags are always too heavy. My sandals are so worn that the soles have holes and the straps threaten to snap with every step. I've tried to mend them many times. They are a sad example of protection, but any barrier between my feet and the scalding sand is better than nothing.

I long to drop my sacks and take a break, but to do so would mean to lose them. The street is busy, and everyone is desperate. Police enforce enough decorum, at least in this crowd, that if someone has an item in their hands, it belongs to them. Anything not clutched is fair game, and once the morning market end, the rules become obsolete. The main shops close down and the police go home.

So instead of taking a break, I hike my bags higher onto my shoulders and trudge on.

I approach the fruit stand, and my heart sinks. Tears well and I inhale a shaky breath to ward them away. After holding my breath for a moment, I let out an exhausted, disheartened sigh. Only a few blemished fruits remain piled in burlap and leather baskets in the sand. My soul cries out in despair, knowing that this will lead to more pain. My body will have to endure more abuse if I return with food this sickly.