Her Rebel
I move out of range of the security cameras and make my way to the abandoned area of the hospital, past the old empty morgue, and into the small dark room where all the material is kept. Mats, blocks, bolsters, straps, icons, and even an essential oil diffuser to set the mood are waiting for me. There’s no music, but I prefer it that way. Instead I talk and educate the elites who come down to take the forbidden class. I tell them about the other side of the wall and what’s really happening. What life is like on the other side.
Within a month, my class grows from a dozen to nearly two dozen. It’s a bigger crowd than I’m comfortable teaching, but I enjoy the interaction with others.
On Friday and Saturday evenings following my shifts, I go to my dorm room and look out the window. I can always spot Owen’s lamp, which continues to signal me in the dark. I flicker the light in my room off and on, one time, to signal to him that all is well.
But it isn’t all well. Although I enjoy leading the group of curious elites through meditative poses and planting the seeds of compassion and rebellion, I hate being away from Owen. I know what I’m doing is needed, but I’m being selfish.
Knowing how hard it is for Owen doesn’t help either.
Every Friday I have to peel his arms from around me. Every time it breaks my heart. He hates when he can’t have eyes on me. I know he has friends on the other side that keep watch on me so it can give him some sort of peace. But the distance we keep between us is tearing us both apart.
On Sunday night following my last shift, I rush back to Owen. We fuck like animals out of sheer relief that we’re both okay and alive. When we eventually make our way back to his bedroom, we collapse on the bed and don’t leave for hours, just so we can stay naked and close as long as possible.
This is our schedule and we do the best we can, but on Friday morning, everything changes.
As always I set the stage for my class on Friday morning. I turn the lights to low and about twenty people trickle into the room. One by one they open their expensive handbags, as always, to let me inspect the contents. I have to make sure no one brought in their phones or any sort of apparatus to record this.
I take my seat at the front of the class and begin. “Close your eyes and take a breath. Feel your abdomen filling up, then slowly receding and pushing out the air. Good things in, bad things out.”
I listen and watch, making sure everyone is in sync. It’s a lovely thing to see people doing something in unity like this, slowing down and just being together and not competing. I wonder if my mother ever had this feeling. I watch carefully, looking around the room at all my students as we switch positions. All the usuals are here today, in their tight yoga leggings and fitted tops, exposing their collarbones and the shapes of their lifted asses and perky breasts. Most of them are various shades of blonde, with light brown hair, grown long, past their shoulders.
They all have strong bodies and good builds. It’s a shame that they had to come here covered in bulky, Regime-approved clothing for women. They’re forbidden to choose what they want. We might not have a lot on our side of the wall, but we have more freedoms, that’s for sure.
The elites know how to access sexier, more form-fitting clothes, but they wear them at home, the only place the Regime lets it slide.
I call for the next position, and all of my students move, except one. The new student in the back, in the expensive pale pink outfit. Instead of doing the move like someone who needs to come to a yoga class, she sweeps her leg and balances perfectly like she could be the one instructing. Either this woman has beginner’s luck, or she’s here for something else.
I stand up and excuse myself so I can go to the restroom. I head out of the room and through the small anteroom where everyone keeps their coats and shoes. I scan the space for a moment and count to twenty, then flush the toilet. Turning on the water in the sink, I try to muffle my snooping sounds. I feel a slight pang of guilt over wasting perfectly good water, but it’s necessary.
Bingo. I find the new chick’s bag because I remember she wore an expensive-looking camel hair coat and carried a large bag. It’s also a dead giveaway of a government worker. Rifling through the bag, I find a handgun, which is no shock, and in the wallet is a government ID. Department of Non-Loyal Activities. Undersecretary.