Beyond His Control (His 2)

She’s ready, and I am too.

I turn my head toward the ladies sitting beside me, eating their lunch in silence, and I take off the scarf around my mouth. They all look at me as if I’ve lost my mind, but I’m not afraid.

“You don’t have to eat like this,” I say.

“Put it back on,” one of them hisses at me.

“Why? Why aren’t we allowed to talk?”

“Because …” another one says through gritted teeth.

“Rules?” I raise a brow. “And who made those rules? The men in charge. Men with power. Men who want to control you and keep you down. I’m done being subjugated.”

I stand from my seat and speak louder and louder.

“I’m done letting these men control my body. No one gets to decide who we talk to and what we say. No one gets to decide who is more worthy. We are all equal. We all deserve equal treatment.”

A woman beside me tugs at my dress to try to get me to sit down, but I’m not going to stop.

I came here with a purpose, and I intend to fulfill my duty.

This community may not have my heart … but it holds my memories and my soul, and I’ll be damned if I let these women suffer any longer.

“Women deserve to be treated fairly. We deserve to eat without scarves covering our mouths. We deserve to talk when we want. We deserve to marry who we want. We deserve to choose who to have sex with. We deserve power.”

Everyone’s looking at me, even the women who first told me to stop. All the women are hanging on my words. Only the men seem outraged at my blatant attempt to make the others rise. And the guards have noticed too.

So I amp up my game. I step onto the table and hold the scarf high to show my resistance.

“Women are getting beaten. Punished. Hurt. All for men’s pleasure. And I say no more!” I yell. “Our bodies are our own!”

No one’s eating any more, and the guards are approaching fast.

Why is no one responding? None of the women say a word even though I know they want to. I can see it in their eyes; they’re begging me to make them move. But how?

Suddenly, someone else gets up from their seat too.

Emmy.

“My body is my own!” she yells, and she looks around at all the other women.

One more gets up. “My body is my own!”

And another one follows, like turnips sprouting from the ground, they all go up in bunches. First, the women I gave the vials too, then their friends, and then their families, until almost half the women in the room have stood.

Even in the face of their husbands sitting right next to them, judging their every move.

“Women, it’s time to rise up! This is your time! Your life! Choose you! Take back the power they took from you!” I roar.

Emmy’s husband tugs at her dress.

Instead of getting down, she stabs him in the hand with her fork.

Everyone sees.

Then the entire room breaks out into screams.

My eyes widen as the women who got up from their seats start punching the men they accompanied as hard as they can. We’re outnumbered, with guards sprouting up everywhere, but it won’t stop them now. They’re emboldened by my speech, and the whole thing quickly turns into one big food-smash-fight. Women and men throw punches at each other, scarves are flung around like lassos, food is thrown everywhere, and knives and forks are used to poke at arms and legs.

Suddenly, a guard and I lock eyes. I panic and quickly jump down as he comes rushing toward me, and I throw myself into the crowd of fighting people. Someone throws me a lefty, and I barely duck out before it hits someone in the jaw. I crawl across the floor underneath the tables, trying to avoid getting hit.

Guards are all around shushing people, warning them with shouting, but no one pays attention. A Taser is shot, and someone screams.

I crawl up from the floor and look around. Emmy’s in the corner of the room, huddled closely to three other women who are trying to escape the dining hut.

I have to help her.

Rising with me created a target on her back, and I don’t want her to get hurt, so I quickly rush to her, ignoring the guard yelling my name a few feet behind me.

“Emmy! Get out! Now!” I yell, as her eyes finally land on me.

In panic, she spins on her heels, goes into the kitchen area and brings back a giant cleaver that was used to butcher the pigs, and she jams it into the locked door as hard as she can. It creaks, and the door cracks open under the pressure, allowing the women to exit.

People swarm to the door in an effort to escape the carnage. The dining hut quickly empties out like a bucket spilling its contents after someone cut a hole into it, and I rush out with the people while throwing my hood over my head again in an effort to blend in.