Answering the Bell

Unnerved under the focused attention of strange eyes a tiny, tinny bell begins tinka-tink-tinkling somewhere deep in the folds of Leslie's brain, a bell so barely audible at first tinkle that it’s unwitting host continues her oblivious sleep, yet the teensy bell persists, slowly at first, though conscientiously, it’s angst and volume increasing as her nap continues, touching on nerves as it crescendos, releasing un-ignorable cortisols and adrenalines while prying it’s irksome self into her slumbering psyche.

Believe it. This hellish little bell is fucking relentless in its pursuit of duty.

Humans, no matter whose image we reflect, are biologically constructed. We are animals. Being at the top of the predatory chain does not change this fact, and being animals we are subjected to animalistic instincts, evolutionary warning signals which lie forever at rest within us, patiently awaiting their moments for usefulness. Unbeknownst to the napping Leslie one of these has awakened within her.

The year is 2041. Instincts no longer meeting her needs Leslie, like most women, has willfully glossed them over in favor of the pseudo-sciences of her day, and the pseudo-religions, and to her trust in civil obedience, but those primitive instincts have not abandoned her. Though tamped down and restrained there she has in no way eliminated them. The instincts are still alive, waiting as patiently as sentinels in the ignored solitudes of her loneliest outposts, hopeful for a moment to rise up and shine, heralding some unforeseen danger. For instance, when and if she might be alone and there comes that proverbial “bump in the night.” That time when Leslie’s better subconscious tells her it is only the wind, but something even further down inside the gray matter than that "better subconsciousness" whispers that, "No. That‘s not right… there is no wind,” until she is forced to test with a wetted finger and conclude that the air is indeed still. The instinct for survival is that warning voice she never wants to hear, the one which sparks that very first paralyzing, electrical tinge of terror down her spine as she walks unawares into the spider’s web, and that halts her breath even as it heightens her sensory perceptions. Were she a nineteenth-century man Leslie might have labeled this instinct the “Voice of God,” as it is the voice which emanates directly from some subconscious will that every living being must possess in order to perpetuate it’s own life.

Yes, Leslie sleeps, but it does not. In fact, the instinct is wide-awake now, having taken on the unlikely form of the annoying little bell. Not only is the instinct awake, it is becoming anxious. Being asleep, Leslie cannot be sure what it is happening inside her, though her eyeballs begin to follow the frenetic gyrations of the instinct, joggling crazily behind her closed lids as her brow begins to tic, and her fingers to spasm. The instinct knows it must somehow manifest itself, and it must do so quickly so that Leslie has time to avoid the danger that has sparked the instinct to industriousness. Therefore it invades her peaceful slumber in the form of an evil too horrible to be ignored, so that her dream is now a nightmare which she must awaken from. And so the tiny bell becomes a claxon inside her, creating chaos where restful order is desired, so that Leslie’s muscles subconsciously tense, her lungs expand in preparation of crying out, her eyes flare open and she is unpreparedly thrust into the wide awake, with the tinny-tiny bell having fallen as silent to her as though it never, ever was.

Herein, however, lies the problem with instinct, and the reason Leslie has eschewed it. Instinct cannot communicate forward from this vulnerable point. Leslie has awakened, but to what end? Seeing no immediate threat, her muscles relax. After what must have been a great while she finally exhales. “Ahhh… it was only a dream.”

But was it?

There is a moment as she gathers herself, checking that her surroundings appear as they should be. The train continues rocking beneath her, it's steel wheels clacking in time. Rural scenes still flash past the windows. A woman somewhere sneezes. Leslie’s bladder aches. she assumes this is the reason she has awakened, but before she can so much as think to rise she notices the man. He is looking at her from the seat opposite hers. Her tinted glasses have not revealed to the man that she is awake, nor that she is also looking at him. Duped by her camouflage neither of them are shamed as they should be, so his gaze does not cut away when her eyes settle on his. Leslie is relieved that the man’s expression portends no evil, rather his is a wistful gaze, still she does not like men, nor trust them, though she has admittedly known very few. Those men she had met seemed alright enough, she supposed, but she has been taught not to trust, and her teachers must know.

Leslie is a good girl… and was a good student all the way up.

The man is under double guard, as all men are. His guards are Amazon-like in their size and strength. Their prisoner wears the loose fitting, striped clothing of man. His legs are shackled at the ankle, his wrists cuffed to a chain about his waist. This one must be particularly dangerous, Leslie assumes. He must be, though she sees no indicator of how so, other than his eyes, which are still fastened upon her. She is becoming uncomfortable from them, somehow diminished, which is odd since he is the one who is bound. Shouldn’t it be he who feels weak? She should say something to the guards, so that they might force him to avert his eyes. Who does he think he is anyway, Leslie wonders, to stare at her as though she is the animal in the zoo, and not him?

Still, there is nothing malicious in his expression. It is as though he is lost in thought, reminiscing about some happier day, and it is only an accident that his eyes have trained themselves upon her as he does so. It is almost as though he is looking through her, rather than at her. She begins to pity his forlorn look, and his stripes and chains, but the sympathy she feels is short-lived, as it is quickly followed by that rising within her of that same frenetic energy which woke her from her nap, and which has set her once more upon pins and needles... tinka-linka-link.

“Careful, Leslie!” She reminds herself. “This is no lost puppy. This is a man!“ A pang of guilt flogs at her weakness. “He is the cause of all that is bad. The teachers all said so. Surely he deserves those stripes and chains!”

She wonders what horrible things this particular one has done to deserve enslavement, but then, she needn’t wonder. He is a man. It is enough. He would rape and kill, and lie and cheat for money or power given the chance. They all do. They always have. The books all say so.

Every man would be dead now if it could be managed, but it cannot. It has been discovered, like it or not, that some men are necessary, that some are needed to do those things that women will not, as it was found that even the strongest women, those women hand-picked for their size and strength and offered great reward for their service, those women still neither can nor will do the hardest, dirtiest work that is necessary to keep civilization from falling to disrepair. The women simply refuse, so some men must be kept, though the most rugged have long since been weeded out of society for safety’s sake, and only the softer, gentler ones tolerated. Yet, as will invariably happen with dogs and men, some of the stronger types have escaped into the swamps where they live like rats, hidden away from civilization.

But this one appears neither soft, nor gentle. Leslie has never seen his like. Barbarity is undoubtedly his crime. She wonders how one like him is ever caught? What could have lured him from the swamps, and into those chains? Rumor is that the men in the swamps have women, captured women. Could anything be more horrible, Leslie wondered, than a life in the swamps, subjugated by men? The thought brought a shudder. There was even unfathomable talk of women leaving the sanctuary of Orlando willingly, of their own volition, walking away into the wilds to never be seen again. Where could such an inclination possibly originate? How could anyone be so foolish? It angered Leslie to think that any woman could be so naive, so ungrateful. After all that had been done to rid civilization of man how could any woman with half a brain willingly leave their new and improved world to help re-propagate the patriarchy out in the wilds? Certainly, no educated woman would. As far as Leslie was concerned, she wished they’d just let the bastards die, already. Men frightened her. Especially this one, but as with any horrible, detestable thing she found her eyes unwilling to withdraw from it.

Yet this one also appeared immensely sad, didn’t he? And well he should, what with the future he faced. She supposed he was being taken for sperm harvesting first, and then he would be forced into labor, slaving in those unenviable jobs outside of the HeR Realm; plumbing, farming, roadwork, mining, rail maintenance… those jobs no self-respecting woman would ever be caught dead doing, no matter what pay was offered. The thought of doing such work made her grateful again for HeR! HeR was a godsend; employing all women, and treating every single one respectfully, with no real output required of any of them other than insuring equity, which though impossible was never-the-less an intriguing game to play.

Sperm harvesting? Leslie sometimes wished she had majored in bio-mechanics at University. She wondered how it was done, what sort of machine was used? And if not a machine, then what? Surely no self respecting woman was expected to coax it out? This one’s sperm would undoubtedly bring top dollar, as even from his sitting position the appeal of his stature was obvious to Leslie. He would tower over her if standing. This one even dwarfed the Amazon-like guards sitting at his sides. Leslie was unnerved by the realization that, should the man take a violent turn, even being chained the two guards would stand little chance against him. But then, that’s why the guards were armed, wasn’t it? To ensure no such thing would happen? Still, the prospect was frightening.

Though the man looked sad his face appeared strong, his features cut clean and his weathered hands veined with confidence and competence. Both his hands and face were unlike any of those she had ever encountered in Orlando. The one’s she’d seen were soft men, pretty men, making them singularly unattractive to Leslie, validating her choice of women for partners. The Orlando men reinforced her belief that men were just poor imitations of women anyways, and suited no purposes other than their muscular strength and their sperm… until this one. This one seemed different. This one looked capable… even dangerous. That thought stirred another instinct awake, another bell, heightening Leslie’s awareness and stimulating her pulse, though this survival instinct somehow felt different than the other, and clamored in different spots within her.

God, she needed to pee! But Leslie hesitated to get up with him watching her the way he was. What made him do that, anyway? She should say something to the guards, but what would she say? “Your man is looking at me?” Shit, she was admittedly as afraid of the guards as she was of the man. More-so really, as she had seen firsthand what the Orlando Guard were capable of. Could anything, Leslie wondered, be scarier than a large, testosterone infused woman with a taser and an attitude?

Regardless, she must go, and soon. But as she stood and started down the aisle the strangest thing happened. Leslie forgot how to walk. Or at least, while she napped her gait had somehow changed itself unbeknownst to her. She found her weight pushing itself onto the balls of her feet, which coerced an unbidden roll to her hips which, however embarrassing, once employed she was powerless to undo. She wondered if anyone noticed. She longed to look back, to see if the man was looking on, or if the knowing guards were smirking, but she defeated the urge and hurried along the best that she was able to under the awkwardly trying circumstances.

And the walk back from the restroom held more, even greater horrors. The more conscious of her gait she became, the more it changed. She was surprised to find her diaphragm sucked tight, and her shoulders peeled back so that her chest was thrust brazenly, humiliatingly forward. There was an agent checking tickets in the aisle, forcing Leslie to squeeze herself around the uniformed woman in order to get back to her seat, which was where she was when the train lurched slightly, tilting the agent into her and knocking Leslie into the astonished prisoner’s lap. Mortified, Leslie clawed to get up, but the agent was still there, blocking her path. Leslie fell back onto the prisoner, her bottom landing solidly upon muscle-hardened thighs which proved more than adequate to support her weight, solid enough in fact to jolt a panic through her. Forgetting that his hands were fastened to his sides she assumed the ones she felt grabbing at her were his, so she fought them. A desperate sound escaped her as she slapped uselessly at those unseen hands which were finally and gratefully able to catch her up, and to push her onward in the direction of her seat where Leslie kept her eyes lowered away from her humility, though it was unnecessary, as she was still wearing the dark glasses.

She wanted to look up at the man, but could not bring herself to. She wanted to read his face. Was he laughing at her? But she could not bring herself to because she could not stop thinking about how his lap had felt underneath her, how her softness had molded naturally and comfortably around his hardness, and how she had not been able to pull herself away from it. Had it been a lack of strength which held her there, or a lack of will? It had been as though something inside her longed to be where it was, and so had inadvertently devised a devious plan to place itself there, and which had then desired more time there once it’s plan had played out. This evil thought flushed Leslie’s cheeks, and was why she could not look the man’s way. It was just the sort of thought that got a woman exiled from Orlando, wasn’t it?

But she had to look, didn’t she? She could not stop wondering if he was looking at her, if he had felt what she’d felt… she didn’t know what to call it… a connection? Behind the dark lenses her eyes flickered only for the briefest second, just long enough for her to see that the man was still looking at her. Unmindfully, her posture stiffened and her legs crossed as she considered what that meant. If he was staring at her after what had happened then it was no longer mindless staring, was it? It was intentional, brash even. Her eyes flickered again, holding there longer this time. He was still looking.

Their eyes met. Even through the glasses they met. When they did, her hand surprised her by reaching up to her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “Whatever could have prompted that?” she wondered, her eyes averting for a moment before returning to his, suddenly afraid of losing them. They were desperate, his eyes. She could see the desperation in them... and the hunger. Yes, she could see that in them too, and in his body, the way the calloused hands manacled to his waist kneaded nervously at his thighs. The recollected hardness she’d accidentally discovered in those thighs started her chest to pounding, and her ears to pulsing. She could not look away now or else she might lose those memories and discoveries forever, and she did not want them lost.

This was ridiculous! Unable to meet his gaze any longer her eyes closed away from his only to allow her mind’s eye to take over, showing her what her sensory eyes could not, displaying for her the calloused hands in a different fashion; kneading her thighs now instead of his own, squeezing them almost to the point of pain before slowly releasing them, and then squeezing again before sliding down toward her knees, easing them slightly apart before sliding back up again slowly and ever closer to her, his thumbs on their insides squeezing, pushing upwards until they nearly, nearly touched her there… and always, always firmly squeezing.

Her eyes flared open at her audible moan.

Jesus Christ! What was the fucking matter with her? Leslie forced a breath, though her chest still pounded and her ears still hammered. She looked again, but this time it was his eyes that were closed. Leslie wondered what he was thinking, and if he was thinking of her as she’d been thinking of him? She noticed his hands, lying still now on his thighs, no longer kneading them. And she noticed that the stripes across his lap were stretched tight, and she was thankful for the dark glasses as she looked, and breathed, and pounded, so that no one could see her and know.

The train’s breaks squealed. The car lurched itself to a stop as a feminine voice oozed directions, always feminine. Her stop? But how could it? Hadn’t she just boarded?

She did not want to disembark. Instead she looked at the man who was looking at her. The desperation was still there, clinging to her from his eyes, and the hunger. And her heart still pounded her breast, and her ears still thundered, and the tiny-tinny bell was back as she rose, anxiously clamoring for attention as she and it watched the man slide from his seat to the aisle’s floor, catching himself there on a single knee, his eyes fixed on hers filled with noble purpose as he willingly submitted himself before her.

It was upon her own weakened knees that Leslie stepped down from the car. There was no longer thought of posture, nor gate. There was only emptiness. The train eased slowly forward before shooting ahead with a vastly unexpected speed and was gone, but for a reverberative clack issuing up from the rail’s steel.

Leslie felt no satisfaction that he and it were gone, and no joy in being home.

It was three blocks to the apartment she and Morgan shared, though it suddenly seemed much further away from the station than it ever had before. Theirs was an apartment just like everyone else’s, the same floor plan, with the same single bedroom and the same types of appliances. There was no need in the realm that was Orlando for larger apartments, as only those women in power could afford in vitro, and neither she nor Morgan wielded any power yet, though both worked dutifully for HeR, which of course was the power in Orlando. And while an Orlando man might theoretically have a baby, it was still impossible for two Orlando women to conceive, or two women anywhere for that matter. And for the first time ever Leslie felt a desire to conceive. More than a desire actually; a need. Before it was too late. A need which bordered on rashness; to feel a child grow within her, to hear its cry, and to suckle it. Her body literally tingled at the thought of it.

Across the tracks lay the swamplands, dark and foreboding. She had ever feared the swamps and those who inhabited them. It was a learned fear, taught since her youth, back when she’d been separated from her own parents and placed in HeR’s care, as all young girls must be at the same age when the boys are either “changed” or enslaved.

Leslie began her unwilling trek to the apartment which she, for some reason, was thinking of as “the apartment,” rather than as “her apartment,” or as “their apartment.” Today was Thursday. Morgan would be making her pasta. Leslie felt revulsion at the thought of the apartment, and at the thought of Thursday Pasta, and even at the thought of Morgan, though she did love Morgan. Really, she did. She loved Morgan very much! She only wished she were in love with Morgan, or with any other woman for that matter. Morgan had never made Leslie’s heart beat like the man on the train had, nor had Tracey before Morgan, nor Kim before Tracey. It was sad that a woman had never made Leslie feel that, but it was also made obvious to her today that one never could.

The swamp was right over there, only the train tracks and a small field of grass away. She could feel it watching her, the swamp, with eyes that made her uncomfortable, just as the man on the train’s had. Leslie was dressed for work, not the swamps, but if there was no one over there awaiting her then she would not survive anyways, would she? Leslie turned away from familiarity then, away from Thursday Pasta and, in answer to the tinkling bell inside her towards that which was different. Leslie veered slightly across the tracks, hurrying over the grassy area towards the tree line, afraid of her fear, afraid that it might stop her.

Leslie ran. She ran with the prescience that somewhere in those shadows a man awaited her, a man not unlike the one from the train, a strong man who would walk beside her, submitting himself to her if she would submit in kind. A man who would love her and hers, and protect them, offering them comfort and hope. A man unlike the ones she had been taught to fear.

And as Leslie ran the tinkling bell in the folds of her mind ceased it’s ringing, it‘s warnings no longer necessary, for up ahead the shadowy unknown tolled out to her a clearer premonition, one resounding with the safeties and comforts of Divine destiny.

Believe it. Leslie ran.