The Handmaid’s Tale: A New Perspective, Serena Joy
We stood face to face for the first time five weeks
ago, when she dutifully arrived at this posting. On that day the handmaid was
permitted to come to the front door. I decided to wait behind it, to see what
little I could of her before she was presented to me. One of the precious
freedoms left even for those like myself. She appeared as a red shadow, her
image warped by the stained glass. A shadow, an object, a vessel - the handmaid’s
duty. It is a bitter and gloomy thought.
I wish I could be different, but time
and experience has ruined me. I gazed at the door, its varnished wooden frame
peeling away, revealing the rings hidden for centuries, showing the age
concealed beneath. The smell of stale perfume, the old furniture, having been used
by many lords and ladies at grand balls and parties, the images of butlers in
black suits and white gloves remain encrusted in time. The old grandeur died
years ago but lingers still in the air.
My thoughts were interrupted by a
figure, one of the Aunts. I had heard the expression on the Black-market. They
use it as a means of making vitriolic and vindictive cows appear as benign and
gentle beings. Of course, it never works, they rarely succeed. This doesn’t
shock me really, with their electric cattle prods slung around their wastes.
Perception is something difficult to master – one must be perceived in the
right light. ‘Aunts’ are not. The bell had tolled for me. I opened the door,
the beam of sunlight, shining like a spotlight. It mocked me, wanted me to
sing, a merriment forbidden to anyone within our walls.
The chair, the foot stool, the
crystal lamp. The window plain and austere relieved only by a vibrant red rose
stained on the middle pane. Two curtains, red and gold. They were heavy and
musty with age and neglect, their tassels moth eaten. A pillow rested on the
chair. It belonged to my Grandmother, a piece of heritage that clings on to
life but not the living. The chair itself stood in the centre, its colour faded
by the Sun. My way to be seen while remaining out of sight.
Sitting on my chair, I gazed at the
new Handmaid. Though her face was hidden, I could see her. Knowledge is power
here, it signifies control. I knew what she was thinking, assessing if I would
be a kind or miserable mistress. They all do at first. She should have known
better, it’s healthier and safer for them to accept what is and not dwell on
other things. One is only destined for disappointment and punishment if one
thinks of freedom.
An array of light shone through the
room, the light of the sun shooting rainbows off the diamond on my finger. A
thousand spotlights glittered around us, it brought back the music. That was
how we met, my husband and I as once again, my eyes were drawn to my studded
finger. He makes me do them. Interview each new one just in case they are ‘one
of them’ he says. I once asked why. A mistake I shall never make again, the
cane a reminder.
I lit the cigarette and detected a
sigh of pure longing from the Handmaid. She, of course, like the rest of them,
was not allowed anything that could damage her health, or the chances. The
Black-market has many things available for the desperate and longing few. There
would have been nothing for her there though, she had nothing to exchange. Not
without sacrifice. I slowly exhaled, mentioning that old what’s his face didn’t
work out. I couldn’t say I was surprised, he never did accomplish anything.
She told me it was her third posting.
Unlucky for her. I coughed at the melancholy tone; she gave too much away poor
thing. I told her to sit down. Usually I’d make them suffer, Handmaids only
cause pain, dredging memories and the loss of femininity from the dark tunnels
of my mind. But she reminded me of a blood clot. Something that works its way
around the body, until it finds the heart, destroying the beauty of creation.
Don’t call me Ma’am, I said. She is
not a maid. Not of that kind anyway. The old one called me Ma’am. I will miss
her. She did her job, was quiet, unobtrusive – invisible. Despite the bloody
straightjacket.
The new one didn’t know, would never
know. She would be here for the duration – an indefinite prison sentence in a
penitentiary of hell. He, after all, my husband, is not a man. Not an Adam. He
can hunt but not produce. There will be no paradise for her.
Comments
Post a Comment