Serving in her Blindspot Pt. 01

I never realised what I had until it was gone.

I get hung up over the smallest of things, like huddling up under a warm blanket with some trashy drama on the TV, barely paying attention as I flicked through my phone. I can still listen, but that doesn't exactly help much. I can't look at my phone to distract me and television is a visual medium, so a lot of the plots shoot right over my head. I mean there is audio description, but fuck that. If I wanted someone to tonelessly describe what's happening on the screen, I'd ask my brother to do it.

No, I think television is a lost cause. There are radio dramas, but they're generally marketed towards old farmers who need something to stick on in their tractor, or slaves who need something mindless on while they work. Sixteen-year-old girls aren't the target audience, unless they're wearing a collar.

Music is good, but the options are either the shitty public radio stations or stations with actually good music but more ads than songs. No, I do not need to know about your shitty social media app and the five adverts you bought for it in the space of an hour aren't going to change that. What use would I have for a video sharing app anyway?

Smartphones are another thing I've come to hate. So convenient, right until they're not. I just know I've got some brick coming my way, with buttons big enough that I can tell them apart and maybe call somebody if I get into trouble, so long as I can remember their number. The worst part is that I'll probably be grateful when I get it, even though it'll be a quarter of the value of the model that's sitting unused on my chest of drawers. I'd say it's gathering dust, but I assume the girls aren't slacking off just because I'm blind now.

"Tori."

I jump a little, I just can't help myself. Carpet is comfier than floorboards, but it makes it impossible to tell when somebody's walking around. When I feel a hand on my shoulder, I'm very glad my father decided to speak before coming closer. He hadn't quite figured that out a week or so ago and kept freaking me out with reassuring touches.

"Yes, dad?"

"I've got something for you. A gift."

I smile, even though I don't feel up to it. I know it's what he wants to see and I don't want anyone being sad about what's happened to me. I mean, I guess they probably are sad, but they're not letting it show. It can't be hard to do; all they have to do is make themselves sound happy, never mind the expressions on their faces. Still, so long as they're still happy enough to pretend, I can pretend right back.

"Oh? What sort of gift?"

"You'll see," he says automatically, before I hear a sharp intake of breath as he realises his slip up. To take his mind off it, I stand up and hold out a hand.

"So where is it?"

"In your room," he says, as he takes my hand.

Even with him guiding me, my steps are slow and careful. There are enough random end tables and ornaments scattered about our cramped little home that walking down them on my own is downright hazardous, and even walking with daddy's help is still scary. I've already broken more than a few family photos, and it's only been a month.

"We're at the stairs, Tori," he explains as he stops. "Think you can take them on your own?"

"I think so," I reply, gingerly reaching out with a foot until it hits the base of the stairs. From there, it's a fairly uncomplicated job of putting one foot in front of the other, letting sixteen years of lived experience tell me how high and how far forward I need to step. I take it slow, still hesitant after that time I misjudged the gap coming down and would have probably split my skull open if Susan hadn't been there to break my fall.

I never did thank her for that...

The last step comes as a surprise; I miscounted, again, and stepped up when I didn't need to. Dad immediately rushes up beside me, but at least I didn't fall this time. I shrug off his hand when he grabs mine, instead turning and walking down the corridor to my room, one hand touching the wall as I count the doors.

The first door, off to my left, is the quarters. Not a room I thought about much before I started using its door as a landmark. It's small, some later conversion by a previous occupant. Centrally located in the house, there's just enough room inside for a bed, some shelves and the almost cupboard-like shower-toilet that shares a wall with the main bathroom. Meredith and her daughter share it. Then it's my room, right at the back of the narrow house and overlooking a parking lot.

Not that the less-than-impressive view matters anymore, I suppose.

Once I'm inside, I hear dad's feet on the carpet as he steps around me, briefly resting a hand on my shoulder as he passes.

"Okay," he says. "I need you to take about two steps forward."

"Sure thing..."

I do as he asked, moving slowly in case I hit something I can't see.

"Great. Your gift is right in front of you. Just reach out."

A little hesitantly, I stretch my arm out in front of me. I touch something soft and... oh, that's a boob.

From the way the girl in front of me flinched a little, rather than backing away or laughing, I'm not at all surprised when I trail my hand up the hard-wearing fabric of her blouse and find a leather collar circling her neck. I curl my fingers around it, my knuckles lightly pressed against her throat, letting me feel each shallow breath she takes, as well as the little metal studs on the inside of the collar. I stroke the leather with my thumb, feeling a metal clasp sealed shut by a simple padlock.

"You remember the Duret family?" my father asks from somewhere to my right. "The dad's a lawyer, their son's a year older than you. Anyway, I was talking to their dad at work the other day and you came up. He offered to sell me one of his maids for a discount and I thought she'd be useful. She won't be here much over the next few weeks because I'm sending her off to get a seeing eye certification, as well a medical one to administer your insulin. She'll be done by the time you go back to school."

I can almost feel my shoulders sag in relief as the weight I deliberately hadn't been thinking about gets so much lighter. I didn't know what I was going to do about school, and the idea of going back had started to feel more and more terrifying.

I still probably won't be able to run in any more track events, but at least she should stop me from falling too far behind in my studies.

I let go of her collar and step to my right, spreading my arms wide. Dad gets my meaning immediately, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me in close.

"Thank you," I whisper, as he strokes my back.

"You'll survive this," he whispers back. "I know you will."

We just stand there for about a minute, as I cling to any comfort I can find. Eventually, he pulls back and I'm left alone in the dark again.

"I'll leave you to get to know her. See you at lunch, Tori."

Once I hear the click of the door closing, I turn on the spot a couple of times.

"... dammit, where's my bed?"

"Three feet to your left, mistress," the girl speaks, for the first time. Her voice is a little lower-pitched than mine, with a slightly French accent, and pretty steady for someone who just got sold.

I turn left without responding, taking one step and stretching out a leg until my shin taps against the frame. Gracelessly, I flop down onto the springy mattress, not really caring if my head's resting at the top, bottom or side, and turn to look at where I think the girl's voice was coming from.

"I suppose you have a name?"

"Clarisse, mistress."

"Well, Clara, is there anything I should know about you, or is this really just charity?

She's quiet, but from the sound of the floor shifting I can tell she's nervous about something. I mean, something beyond all the other obvious reasons she has to be nervous. When she speaks, I can tell she's forcing herself to speak. Maybe there are tears, too, but that can't be helped. It's probably a good thing, not having to school your face around your owner.

... I'll have to make sure she behaves in public, somehow.

"My... my former master and mistress were... keen to sell me off, ma'am. Their son -- my younger half-brother -- was starting to... express an interest, Mistress felt I was..."

"Ah," I cut her off, more to stop her from forcing herself through the rest of that sentence. "You know, I hear some people don't care about that sort of thing, so long as it's with a slave. Still, sounds like you had a lucky escape."

"Yes, mistress..." she lies.

I stretch out on my bed, hunting around for a pillow to put behind my head and forgetting for a moment that there's a girl standing in the middle of my room. She's almost dangerously quiet. My brow furrows.

"Do you have any stuff?"

"I have a bag, mistress. With my uniforms, some casual clothes and toiletries."

"Right, uh, make some space for them in the closet, okay? Don't wear the uniforms. As you can see, we're not as well off as the Durets."

She doesn't respond, but I can hear her moving around as quietly as she can, unzipping her bag and tucking the clothes away. Seen but not heard, I guess.

I might need to do something about that, but a bell would get annoying fast.

Once the sound of movement stops, I speak up to fill the void.

"You done?"

"Yes, mistress."

I roll myself upright, setting my feet on the floor before standing up and holding out my arm for her to take. It takes her a few seconds to get what I mean, before I feel her slide her arm around mine.

"I've been cooped up in here for a week now. Grab my purse from the bedside table, we're going out."

"Yes, mistress," she repeats, as she starts awkwardly and hesitantly leading me to the door. Dad definitely needs to send her off to learn how to do this properly, but I'm not about to wait another few weeks to leave the house.

We're almost to the door when I hear a pair of footsteps approaching from behind me.

"Sweetie, are you heading out?"

"Yep! I'm going to get some lunch." I exclaim with a wide smile that should hopefully get across what I really mean; I'm going to do this, and you're not going to stop me.

"Well, have fun," dad says, folding like a deckchair, "but there's one more thing before you go."

He takes my hand and presses a small remote into it. It's little smaller than my thumb, with a ring on one end so it can be fitted to a keychain. There's only one button on it. Clara's arm stiffens a little as dad fiddles with her collar for a moment, then there's the click of something plastic snapping shut.

"It's a proximity sensor. If she gets more than thirty feet away from you, the box on her collar will start to beep."

"She's not an escape risk, is she?" I ask, as I suddenly start to worry she'll just dump me in the middle of an intersection or something.

"Mistress, I would never-" the girl stammers out, only to be cut off by my dad.

"It's just a precaution. I'm your father; it's my job to worry about you."

"Fair enough," I smile, slipping the remote into the pocket of my skirt. "What does the button do?"

"Oh, that's for the shock collar," he says matter-of-factly as he ushers the pair of us out the door. "Just in case."

He shuts the door behind us, leaving me standing out in the street surrounded by the noise of passing cars and pedestrians. Beside me, the girl has tensed up completely.

"Do you know this part of Philadelphia?" I ask, partly because it'd be helpful if she did but mostly because I want to knock her out of her funk.

"Sorry, mistress, I don't. I lived out in the suburbs and only really left the house to go to the store."

"That's okay, I figured as much. We'll just have to go off memory, then."

I pause, looking from side to side and trying to remember what the street looks like. I picture the rows of terraced townhouses, the parked cars tucked between the trees that line the road. And the way I used to walk.

"Take me right to the end of the block, then turn left and head up about two more until you see a place called 'Sunny's Diner.' We'll eat there."

The walk through the city streets is more than a little terrifying, especially whenever I have to cross a road, but Clara just about manages to keep me from embarrassing myself by ever-so-gently steering me around people. A little too gently, in fact. To the point where I'm pretty sure I've had more than a few near-misses.

"Clara."

"Yes, mistress?"

"I'm blind."

"I... know?"

"That means I can't see."

"Um..."

"So if I'm about to walk into someone, or step in front of a bus or something, you need to stop me. If that means you need to pull me back, then you do it. You need to spot these things faster, so you don't have to be forceful, but don't be afraid to tug me out of the way if you have to. Understood?"

"Yes, mistress," she acknowledges after a moment's hesitation.

"Good. Because if you do let me walk in front of a car, things won't end up great for you, will they?"

She doesn't answer, but I let it slide. She needs to find her spine, otherwise this isn't going to work, but I also can't let her forget her place. Even a couple of blocks from home, I'm already completely dependent on her. It's a dangerous position for a slaveowner to be in in.

Maybe it's a bit soon for solo expeditions? I frown, as a thought crosses my mind.

"My dad isn't behind us, is he?"

Clara pauses, her arm shifting as she turns.

"No, mistress," she confirms.

Of course, that's when the doubts start to creep in. I only have her word for it, and I'm not the one who owns her. My dad could be right there, signalling for Clara to keep quiet, and I wouldn't know about it.

"Just checking," I say. "I'll let you focus now."

I make it to the diner intact, the waitress' breath hitching a little as she figures out what's wrong with me. As Clarisse guides me through, I bump my hip on a table and hear a sharp indrawn breath from right beside me, the slave's arm tensing up as though she's afraid I might shock her.

The thought crosses my mind, but with her arm hooked on mine it might shock me as well.

She guides me down into a booth like I'm made of porcelain, then shuffles awkwardly into the seat opposite me. Probably she's been trained not to sit on the furniture when free people are around, but if she stood or knelt next to the table she'd just get in the way.

The waitress hasn't left, asking if I'd like to order now or if I need time to decide.

"I'll have the Chicken Ceaser burger, and some orange fizz. No fries." I pause, frowning, blind eyes darting across the table to the whole other person I'm now legally responsible for.

"Could you get her an egg salad sandwich or something? And a glass of water?"

The floor in here is tiled, the waitress' footsteps audible even over the lunch rush as she heads back to the counter. I lean back in my seat, drumming my fingers on the table as I think things through.

Clarisse doesn't say anything, doesn't even move. I might as well be here on my own.

"Thank you, mistress," she says, all of a sudden, breaking the silence and my good mood at the same time.

"What?"

"The food, mistress. Thank you."

"I've waitressed before. Nobody likes a seat that doesn't eat."

I put enough bite into my tone that she quietens back down again, disappearing into perfect silence as I turn my head to the window, imagining the familiar view of the street beyond.

The last time I was here, it was with friends. It was loud, sure, but it was so bright as well. So many faces, so many expressions. The loss of it all is like a chasm in my heart. I haven't even called them, though mom keeps bugging me to do it.

"What exactly did my dad tell you?" I finally ask, keeping my gaze fixed on the window.

"That I had been bought to serve his daughter, mistress," Clarissa answers, her tone losing its slight waver. Apparently, this is familiar ground. "I was told that you had become blind very recently and needed a guide."

"And how often are you supposed to check in with him?"

The slave doesn't answer immediately. Probably the question itself is a bit dangerous; I imagine family arguments can become fault lines when the family owns you but only one of them has their name on your bill of sale.

"Mistress, I'm sure he will ask after your well-being, but I was told that I would have my ownership transferred to you as soon as you turn eighteen. Until then, I am to serve you as if you were my only owner."

"I suppose it all comes down to trust, doesn't it?" I sigh, turning my head back to look at her. Near her, at least.

"Fine, then. Here's what I want from you. I've lost my whole life, very quickly. You're here so that I can get some of that life back. Independence and control. As much as possible. Think you can do that?"

Her answer is firm, but the wavering tone is back.

"Everything I can, mistress."

Part of me starts to wonder what I could have said that unbalanced her, but then the food arrives and I sink back into familiarity, eating my meal in a comfortable silence broken only by the very faint sounds of someone trying as hard as she can to eat without making a sound.