Hate. Not to like. Dislike, yet stronger. Just a four-letter word, like fuck.
Fuck. I enjoy the sound of that. Flows from the lips. Not much makes me smile
these days. In fact, nothing does.
It did not take long for my people to adapt human language. Every language,
leaving our native tongue behind. Better to communicate, Headquarters told me. I
find it more satisfying to use the pain-reward system, albeit without rewards. But
no, we had to learn human languages, to talk to the wretched beasts. I talk better
with the whip.
The reason I use English is because all my slaves speak that tongue. Although,
over the years, I have learned that my elderly slave can speak fluent in many
languages. But I whip his frail, old body soundly when he utters different words.
And, as an added bonus, I take away his cigarettes.
This planet disgusts me. I yearn for home, but the High Council has deemed
this our new home. Ugh. It gives me nausea to think that Earth is the last place
I’ll ever see. And I hate the humans. All they do is cry and complain. Granted, we
are not very nice to them, but why do they deserve such kindness? They did
nothing but fight and kill us, resist us when we told them it was futile. So the ones
that gave up belong to us as our house-slaves, and the ones that fought are down in
the pit.
I had hoped, when we arrived, that I would be one to serve in the pits. It had
always been my dream to break the souls of those races underneath my own. Yet,
D’Oma’ works in mysterious ways; I was asked to remain above and watch over a
group of English-speakers. So many colors to choose from as well. I, being the
non-conformist that so many others are, chose a wide variety: black, white, tan,
yellow and red. Now I have forty, one per year that I remained on this accursed
planet.
This day I was asked to grant a request. Jack, my cigarette-smoking slave,
asked me to travel down to the pits to check up on a few people. People who had
resisted. People who were surly broken. My kind was good at what they do, and
the pitiful humans had as much strength as my pinky finger. But if only to see how
life in the pits truly is to those that I hate, I told Jack to make me a list of names,
and I will come back with a story.
No matter who tells me that my place is above soil, I am granted access to the
pits. I care nothing for my kind, my people, who force me to stay on this planet,
tending to the humans that I would have rather destroyed. No, D’Oma wouldn’t
allow her precious humans to be killed. I would not have been so generous, as
many of my brethren feel. I would have only kept a couple dozen, to play with at
my leisure.
There was only one other time I went down into the pits, and that was when we
first arrived. Curiosity got the best of me, so I ventured down into darkness to
catch a glimpse. Screams echoed through the hallways, and ever so often an
opened door alerted me to a human’s plight. To just look at them brought me
sickness. Waves of hatred and dizziness accompanied me while I peeked through
the doors. Even their tears could not earn my sympathy. They get what they
deserve.
I squint my eyes and stare at the names on my list. The first is Walter Skinner.
I had asked Jack why these people were so important, on a whim, not really caring
either way if he told me or not. He simply said that these were people he knew in
the past, in his past life, when the Earth was run by the humans. I laughed at him,
and told him that I was sure forty years of torture equaled nothing more than sacks
of skin and bones, still breathing, but not living. He lowered his head and turned
from me. I guess he didn’t want me to see him cry.
Fortunately for me, the cells are numbered, and I was smart enough to ask for
the rooms to each prisoner, before I ventured down. Skinner’s was number
fifty-seven, and when I found it, I rushed inside.
The man in the room was crumpled in the corner in a position I was certain his
bone structure could not handle. Guess the pit guards had their fun breaking each
fragile bone. I stepped towards him and caught the attention of his dazed eyes.
They turned into pleading, which I really didn’t like.
My foot connected soundly with his ribs, jarring the already broken fragments
inside the skin. He screamed hoarsely, muscles moving to try and protect the
injured area. Pity nothing worked right. I kicked him again and again, eliciting
more cries, then finally nothing. Wetness slid down his cheeks and his mouth
frowned. The eyes closed; his body resigned.
I let my fingers slide over his shiny, bald head. “Jack wanted to know how you
were doing, Walter. I guess I could tell him you aren’t dead yet.”
Skinner’s eyes met mine in confusion and anger. My guess was that he didn’t
know who the fuck I was talking about. No bother to my day. I gave him a good
slap in the face, another kick for good measure, and left that pathetic wretch in his
room. One down.
Fox. . .what kind of a name is that? Mulder was the next one on the list. He was
in room twenty-six. When I arrived there, a pit guard was standing only a few
doors away. The first thing I noticed, was the leather coiled around his belt.
“May I borrow your whip?”
The guard stared at me with the contempt I knew he had, but surrendered his
trophy to me anyway. Dumb bastard. Probably didn’t even realize that I’m not
supposed to be here. I entered the room and slammed the door.
Fox Mulder was a lot better looking than I expected, and a lot younger. His face
did not contain that death pallor that I saw in Skinner’s, and his bones seemed to
be in all the right places. And this one, I learned, could speak.
“What do you want now?” His voice mocked me. Forty years should have shown
this man his place. Underling. He should have known better.
This one I wouldn’t speak to. Rather, I pounced on top and pushed him stomach
down. Then, I let the braided cow hide do its job, making short work of the newly
healed scars that already adorned this man’s back. Surprisingly, he didn’t scream,
but I could see by the way his body shook that his eyes knew no desert. Take that
for being so weak! And take this for being so pathetic! Reminders after reminders
of how much I despise the human race. And other reminders of how I despise my
own.
That being said, I stood, took note of how his body curled into itself, and left.
Two down.
The third name on the list was female, a Dana Scully. Her room was one
hundred and eight. Walking there, I was able to think about what I would tell that
son of a bitch Jack when I returned home. “It was fun, Jacky, a lot of fun. Every
single fucker on your list has been broken beyond your wildest imagination. I even
gave them a little present to remember me by. Yeah, I beat the crap out of all of
them, just to watch their reactions. Aww, don’t cry for them, there is nothing you
can do. You chose your fate and they picked theirs. Now fetch me some dinner or I
will do the same to you!”
Dana had the most beautiful head of red hair I had ever seen. Most of the slaves
that I knew or owned did not have red hair, so this was a little treat for me. And
the contrast between her hair and the paleness of her skin was remarkable. If I
didn’t know better, I would have guessed her dead. Lips were a tinge of blue
instead of pink, and her eyes did not notice me. My legs brought me towards her,
and my hand brought the whip crashing down against her breasts.
But Dana was no fun. Nothing escaped her lips, not a scream, nor moan, nor
sob. There were tears, just no emotion. So far, she is the deadest one of them all. I
kicked her a couple of times, knocked her body on its side, then left. Watching her
emptiness made me want to puke.
Three down.
The fourth was Alex Krycek, who everyone knew from the labs. The cripples
were the names that all of us above ground knew, because they had been printed in
the papers. Alex I knew because his name appeared numerous times, telling us
about his new arm, amputation, new arm, amputation. Personally, I was hoping
that they would just cut off the other one just to make it fair, but that wasn’t the
point. The High Council did not do it for fun. It was part of the breaking process. I
just cursed the HC and thought about what idiots they were. If a cripple was what
they wanted, why not cut off both arms and legs and see what he does. I’m sure
that would break him down faster than anything *they* could think of.
Alex was in room three hundred and twenty, which was quite a little walk for
me. No matter how small the cells of the pits were, three hundred was a bit of a
distance. But I made it without wearing myself out.
When I arrived, he was huddled in the corner, much like Skinner. I felt the bile
rise when I caught site of the missing arm, but just swallowed down. When in the
pits, you must leave room for such horrors. Again I would not speak. Just picked
him up, set him against the wall facing me, and pulled his stump away from his
side. The whip was used against the flesh, which opened freely, letting red blood
flow. He tried to stay strong, but with each lash, I could see his will crumbling.
Again and again until he screamed for me. By then, the hot tears coursed his
cheeks, and I had become bored with my game. If I could, I would have put him out
of his misery.
This entire trek of mine is stupid and pointless, but if I can rid my body of some
of the anger it harbors, then I will continue. Sometimes, I enjoy what I do. Other
times, I find it tedious. Ah, well. This is just one of those things that I must do for
the good of all kind.
I laugh to myself. Four down, ten more to go.
FIN
1/26/99