11-07-2017, 06:37 PM
For my English class I chose "The Handmaid's Tale" for my book study. The literature project was open to interpretation. I wrote from Offred's perspective to answer the designated questions, and I'm pretty damn proud of the result. Nothing like Atwood herself of course. Enjoy!
Epilogue
The van waits in the driveway, its double doors stand open. The two of them, one on either side now take me by the elbows to help me in. whether this is my end or a new beginning I have no way of knowing: I have given myself over into the hands of strangers, because it can’t be helped.
And so I step up, into the darkness within; or else the light.
The light. Followed to the end of the tunnel, shone down from above, blinding, searing. Angels were once said to have been surrounded by light, to have brought it forth. Angels, and all; cherubs, children, laughing. Who more apt to carry the light than they? The light, the truth, the gileadean regime. That’s what they’re calling it, now. That’s what it’s called.
“June.” No. “We need to talk, June.” Stop calling me that. “We have Luke.”
I’m right here, Luke whispered, holding me in his bed, before. I’m yours. You have me.
“June, did you hear me?” I hear only the light. The light. The van. The Commander, Serena Joy, Moira, Jezebel’s, the Red Centre; Nick… Luke.
It’s bright, in this room. Bright, like in the interrogation rooms of old Hollywood, the lamp bearing down into my retinas like drills, calling to mind the image of a mole. They took my wings, taking away that comfort of my well worn shackles. It’s bright.
I see them, the men - not the same as the ones who took me, but not at all different anyhow. Sitting, across from me, retinas undrilled, not infested with moles. I blink. They have Luke. So did I, before.
“Would you shut the damn light off.” The man to the right of me almost smiles before he adjusts the setting of the lamp, easing the sounds of drills whirling behind my corneas. They got me out, and they’re smug. I almost miss the drills.
“Now, June, we are only here to talk. A conversation. It’s in your best interest.”
My best interest? That got thrown to the curb a long time ago, mashed into a trash bag with women’s rights, dignities, and voices. I never liked taking the trash out. I always forgot to bring it back in.
“Right, well, let’s get started. We are Eyes. But we have connections with the underground female road. What that means is that we have the power to publically end your life, or to send you to Canada. Which we decide is based off of your answers to the questions we have to ask. Do you understand?”
Nothing surprises me anymore. I almost laugh; but then, what is there to lose? A bark of a laugh escapes me. The chair I’m sitting on creaks beneath me as I lean back in it, folding my hands together over my heavy winter dress. It’s just as red as before. It’s all the same. I nod my bare head, my long strands of hair brushing against me. “Sure.”
“Let’s begin. To you, as a woman, what is truth?”
Another laugh, skeptical, unbelieving. “You brought me here to ask me what the meaning of truth is?” Silence. It loosens my tongue. “As if there is room in this reality for a woman’s opinion. And mine?” Their faces remain impassive, and I consider numbing myself to the world, pretending in the same way as I did while I was under the Commanders. It would be easier. I shake my head. “Mine.” I feel expanding air rising from my sternum into my throat, it makes me need to throw up or scream, to claw through my neck and let the air escape from me like a popped balloon. Screaming.
“I, June, worthless womb, would say this about truth: it is not a sex slave. Truth is not being held between the legs of a woman and fucked between the legs by a man, it’s not being bathed like a child or being fed like an invalid, it’s not wings or red dresses or even blue dresses or striped dresses or green dresses for that matter, truth is not this reality! Truth is not a handmaid. Truth is not being reeducated, it is not destroying books or teaching docility above self respect. Truth is many things, but none of these.” I can feel my heart slamming at the bars of its cage, howling, a wild ape screaming for freedom, for justice, for blood. I throw my head back and laugh; snarl. “Truth, gentleman, is not a whorehouse in a regime where women are pawns of pure, godly men, truth is not Jezebel’s, fuck you for Jezebel’s, fuck you for your twistedness and your goddamn male pride - you want to control us all, to have us be subservient to you in every way, to be good little show puppies who lick your boots - but oh! To give up your whores would just be too much, too goddamn much! All that hard work you put into controlling the ladies, surely you need a wild one now and again, a good wild fuck just like before. Truth, gentleman, is not getting to have it both fucking ways.” I’m staring at my dress; or maybe I’m just seeing red.
“A spirited answer indeed.” The one on the left remarks, a preposterous smile on his lips. He marks something down on a paper I hadn’t noticed before. Grading me. A-plus. “Next, June, I want you to look at this book.” A dark shape is slid across the table to me. I catch it as it falls off the edge; The Bible. “Look at it, and tell me: does it represent truth?”
The red is clearing, the ape in his cage only growling at passersby. An easier question. “I never much read it myself. My mom was new age and all, not much of your Lady of Grace. But there’s some good lines in there.” I glare, pointedly, as if I hadn’t been before. “Something tells me that you missed those ones. Picked and chose what most suited your male egos, and what made your poor, underdeveloped members feel strong and mighty. Figures. Anyway, the bible presents only concepts. How we interpret those concepts is what determines its truthfulness. I happen to agree that love conquers faith and hope. Somehow, out of that, you got that men conquer women.” Head, tilted. “How unusual.”
When I deign not to speak again, or with the same vigor as before, the man on the left lifts his head from its resting position on his folded hands and makes another mark on his colossally important paper. I itch to see the ink etched upon its pure whiteness - not to read what will be my condemnation, but simply to read at all. I haven’t read since Scrabble. Since before.
“How willing are the handmaids to embrace the truth of this new era?” The man on the right, the speaker, has begun to leave out the formalities. Convenient, but it speaks to how they think they’ll be handling the problem of me later on. So be it. They have Luke. The idea of him is barely real to me. Phantom.
“You have us like you had the blacks. You have us like Germany had the Jews. You have us like England and France had indigenous people. You have us, yes, but we are not had. We are had only unto ourselves: and when that connection breaks, then we cannot be had at all. Not for long. Not like you’d like.” My voice is even, the malice within me at a comfortable, venomous plateau. “Remember Janine? That’s what I’m talking about. You had her in the palm of your hand like a baby bird snatched out of its nest, she was feeble and formed to your shape like a mould; but this era you’ve built, it cannot be accepted. Your fingers closed, and closed, and closed around Janine until brains spilt across her unformed wings, because you’re gluttons. It’s never enough for you, no, America the Land of the Free, the land of ownership and slavery and of murdered baby birds. God forbid the women get rights. God forbid the blacks get rights. God forbid the gays get rights. God forbid the white man be on a level playing field; God forbid his rights be allotted to all parties.” If my nostrils flare, I don’t notice. If my eyes roll, I don’t remember. “How willing do you think we are to accept this new era? Your answer would really speak to your logical thought processes.”
Scratch, scratch, dot. Flip. Both of them are smirking. I wasn’t trying to be comical.
“Unfortunately, we aren’t here to answer questions, June. Only to ask them.” We aren’t here to give rights; only to take them. A legacy. “Next. Has this gileadean regime impelled you to violate your self conception, or to embrace its natural roots?”
Expanding gas in my chest, throat, mouth, outside; I’m laughing, cackling, tears wetting my eyes and cheeks. The feeling is fleeting, to die right now would be a gift. I look at the men through a filmy glaze, imagining that they’re drawing a gun right now, saying to each other, she’s done, we’re through, there are better ones out there. A long time passes where the only sound is my choking, sobbing laughter, such a long time that eventually, I must accept that they aren’t going to kill me. They aren’t giving me my saving grace.
“Sorry.” The last few giggles slip out, small tears in an ocean of pain. It’s not like me… Perhaps I am not being had by myself after all. “My natural roots must have been showing.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve - it’s symbolism lost to me. “But, if you really think that this state we women are existing befits our natural roots, then nothing I say will persuade you to see it differently. You remember the women’s marches, the protests, the victories we won. The right to vote, to be owners, to have access to health care. We did not attain those goals by happenstance, gentleman. Certainly, we were not handed them, unlike everything you have ever received in your lives. I’ll bet you your mothers sewed the buttons on to those jackets, too. Or maybe she was just performing her basic, instinctual behaviours, according to men like you.”
“You’re getting off topic, June.”
“Sue me.” I reach up and run my hands through my freed hair, failing to resist the urge to fidget, even though I have always succeed in the time before. Not before, before. The middle time, I would call it. Luke would always chide me for picking at my fingernails. “The gileadean era has forced women to violate every aspect of our self conceptualizations. We have literally been cookie cuttered into the perfect, man-pleasing, man-serving bits of flesh. Our roots have nothing to do with what is happening out there.” The expanding gas is returning, except that somewhere inside, it was ignited. I lean forward, point at myself, slam my hand on the desk. “My natural roots are none of your concern. You have invaded us. Our privacy, our dignity, our pussies and wombs. It’s never enough for the white man, never enough, never enough, always more, more, more, while the rest of us ask only for crumbs. For fucking crumbs.” My hand closes around a tissue box and sends it flying towards one of the men; it bounces uselessly off of him.
Wordless chaos ensues. Nothing the brutes can’t handle. My body across the desk, fists and nails and teeth flailing, is not a worry to them. I don’t know if I land any of my punches, but it would be only right if I did. They’ve done so much to us. The least they deserve is a scratch. A knick.
I grit my teeth as one of them slams me into my seat, the wind billowing out of me like silk - domestic.
I have forgotten which man is right and which is left. This one’s breath isn’t heavy or hard, and it smells like mint toothpaste. He doesn’t deserve the humanity in that.
“Last question, June.” His voice is an impatient growl, though I’m not so deluded as to believe there’s any fear in it. “How do we know you aren’t lying?”
My ears are buzzing, hornets, droning. I almost don’t catch this last insinuation. It makes me smirk; I can’t feel my fingers. “That’s for me to know. And for you to decide.”
Someone is lifting me by my armpits, my head rolls back and laughter gurgles from my lips like blood. I’m being taken somewhere, to Luke, to death, to Canada. Everywhere and nowhere at once. It doesn’t matter, in the end.
Did it ever?
Epilogue
The van waits in the driveway, its double doors stand open. The two of them, one on either side now take me by the elbows to help me in. whether this is my end or a new beginning I have no way of knowing: I have given myself over into the hands of strangers, because it can’t be helped.
And so I step up, into the darkness within; or else the light.
The light. Followed to the end of the tunnel, shone down from above, blinding, searing. Angels were once said to have been surrounded by light, to have brought it forth. Angels, and all; cherubs, children, laughing. Who more apt to carry the light than they? The light, the truth, the gileadean regime. That’s what they’re calling it, now. That’s what it’s called.
“June.” No. “We need to talk, June.” Stop calling me that. “We have Luke.”
I’m right here, Luke whispered, holding me in his bed, before. I’m yours. You have me.
“June, did you hear me?” I hear only the light. The light. The van. The Commander, Serena Joy, Moira, Jezebel’s, the Red Centre; Nick… Luke.
It’s bright, in this room. Bright, like in the interrogation rooms of old Hollywood, the lamp bearing down into my retinas like drills, calling to mind the image of a mole. They took my wings, taking away that comfort of my well worn shackles. It’s bright.
I see them, the men - not the same as the ones who took me, but not at all different anyhow. Sitting, across from me, retinas undrilled, not infested with moles. I blink. They have Luke. So did I, before.
“Would you shut the damn light off.” The man to the right of me almost smiles before he adjusts the setting of the lamp, easing the sounds of drills whirling behind my corneas. They got me out, and they’re smug. I almost miss the drills.
“Now, June, we are only here to talk. A conversation. It’s in your best interest.”
My best interest? That got thrown to the curb a long time ago, mashed into a trash bag with women’s rights, dignities, and voices. I never liked taking the trash out. I always forgot to bring it back in.
“Right, well, let’s get started. We are Eyes. But we have connections with the underground female road. What that means is that we have the power to publically end your life, or to send you to Canada. Which we decide is based off of your answers to the questions we have to ask. Do you understand?”
Nothing surprises me anymore. I almost laugh; but then, what is there to lose? A bark of a laugh escapes me. The chair I’m sitting on creaks beneath me as I lean back in it, folding my hands together over my heavy winter dress. It’s just as red as before. It’s all the same. I nod my bare head, my long strands of hair brushing against me. “Sure.”
“Let’s begin. To you, as a woman, what is truth?”
Another laugh, skeptical, unbelieving. “You brought me here to ask me what the meaning of truth is?” Silence. It loosens my tongue. “As if there is room in this reality for a woman’s opinion. And mine?” Their faces remain impassive, and I consider numbing myself to the world, pretending in the same way as I did while I was under the Commanders. It would be easier. I shake my head. “Mine.” I feel expanding air rising from my sternum into my throat, it makes me need to throw up or scream, to claw through my neck and let the air escape from me like a popped balloon. Screaming.
“I, June, worthless womb, would say this about truth: it is not a sex slave. Truth is not being held between the legs of a woman and fucked between the legs by a man, it’s not being bathed like a child or being fed like an invalid, it’s not wings or red dresses or even blue dresses or striped dresses or green dresses for that matter, truth is not this reality! Truth is not a handmaid. Truth is not being reeducated, it is not destroying books or teaching docility above self respect. Truth is many things, but none of these.” I can feel my heart slamming at the bars of its cage, howling, a wild ape screaming for freedom, for justice, for blood. I throw my head back and laugh; snarl. “Truth, gentleman, is not a whorehouse in a regime where women are pawns of pure, godly men, truth is not Jezebel’s, fuck you for Jezebel’s, fuck you for your twistedness and your goddamn male pride - you want to control us all, to have us be subservient to you in every way, to be good little show puppies who lick your boots - but oh! To give up your whores would just be too much, too goddamn much! All that hard work you put into controlling the ladies, surely you need a wild one now and again, a good wild fuck just like before. Truth, gentleman, is not getting to have it both fucking ways.” I’m staring at my dress; or maybe I’m just seeing red.
“A spirited answer indeed.” The one on the left remarks, a preposterous smile on his lips. He marks something down on a paper I hadn’t noticed before. Grading me. A-plus. “Next, June, I want you to look at this book.” A dark shape is slid across the table to me. I catch it as it falls off the edge; The Bible. “Look at it, and tell me: does it represent truth?”
The red is clearing, the ape in his cage only growling at passersby. An easier question. “I never much read it myself. My mom was new age and all, not much of your Lady of Grace. But there’s some good lines in there.” I glare, pointedly, as if I hadn’t been before. “Something tells me that you missed those ones. Picked and chose what most suited your male egos, and what made your poor, underdeveloped members feel strong and mighty. Figures. Anyway, the bible presents only concepts. How we interpret those concepts is what determines its truthfulness. I happen to agree that love conquers faith and hope. Somehow, out of that, you got that men conquer women.” Head, tilted. “How unusual.”
When I deign not to speak again, or with the same vigor as before, the man on the left lifts his head from its resting position on his folded hands and makes another mark on his colossally important paper. I itch to see the ink etched upon its pure whiteness - not to read what will be my condemnation, but simply to read at all. I haven’t read since Scrabble. Since before.
“How willing are the handmaids to embrace the truth of this new era?” The man on the right, the speaker, has begun to leave out the formalities. Convenient, but it speaks to how they think they’ll be handling the problem of me later on. So be it. They have Luke. The idea of him is barely real to me. Phantom.
“You have us like you had the blacks. You have us like Germany had the Jews. You have us like England and France had indigenous people. You have us, yes, but we are not had. We are had only unto ourselves: and when that connection breaks, then we cannot be had at all. Not for long. Not like you’d like.” My voice is even, the malice within me at a comfortable, venomous plateau. “Remember Janine? That’s what I’m talking about. You had her in the palm of your hand like a baby bird snatched out of its nest, she was feeble and formed to your shape like a mould; but this era you’ve built, it cannot be accepted. Your fingers closed, and closed, and closed around Janine until brains spilt across her unformed wings, because you’re gluttons. It’s never enough for you, no, America the Land of the Free, the land of ownership and slavery and of murdered baby birds. God forbid the women get rights. God forbid the blacks get rights. God forbid the gays get rights. God forbid the white man be on a level playing field; God forbid his rights be allotted to all parties.” If my nostrils flare, I don’t notice. If my eyes roll, I don’t remember. “How willing do you think we are to accept this new era? Your answer would really speak to your logical thought processes.”
Scratch, scratch, dot. Flip. Both of them are smirking. I wasn’t trying to be comical.
“Unfortunately, we aren’t here to answer questions, June. Only to ask them.” We aren’t here to give rights; only to take them. A legacy. “Next. Has this gileadean regime impelled you to violate your self conception, or to embrace its natural roots?”
Expanding gas in my chest, throat, mouth, outside; I’m laughing, cackling, tears wetting my eyes and cheeks. The feeling is fleeting, to die right now would be a gift. I look at the men through a filmy glaze, imagining that they’re drawing a gun right now, saying to each other, she’s done, we’re through, there are better ones out there. A long time passes where the only sound is my choking, sobbing laughter, such a long time that eventually, I must accept that they aren’t going to kill me. They aren’t giving me my saving grace.
“Sorry.” The last few giggles slip out, small tears in an ocean of pain. It’s not like me… Perhaps I am not being had by myself after all. “My natural roots must have been showing.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve - it’s symbolism lost to me. “But, if you really think that this state we women are existing befits our natural roots, then nothing I say will persuade you to see it differently. You remember the women’s marches, the protests, the victories we won. The right to vote, to be owners, to have access to health care. We did not attain those goals by happenstance, gentleman. Certainly, we were not handed them, unlike everything you have ever received in your lives. I’ll bet you your mothers sewed the buttons on to those jackets, too. Or maybe she was just performing her basic, instinctual behaviours, according to men like you.”
“You’re getting off topic, June.”
“Sue me.” I reach up and run my hands through my freed hair, failing to resist the urge to fidget, even though I have always succeed in the time before. Not before, before. The middle time, I would call it. Luke would always chide me for picking at my fingernails. “The gileadean era has forced women to violate every aspect of our self conceptualizations. We have literally been cookie cuttered into the perfect, man-pleasing, man-serving bits of flesh. Our roots have nothing to do with what is happening out there.” The expanding gas is returning, except that somewhere inside, it was ignited. I lean forward, point at myself, slam my hand on the desk. “My natural roots are none of your concern. You have invaded us. Our privacy, our dignity, our pussies and wombs. It’s never enough for the white man, never enough, never enough, always more, more, more, while the rest of us ask only for crumbs. For fucking crumbs.” My hand closes around a tissue box and sends it flying towards one of the men; it bounces uselessly off of him.
Wordless chaos ensues. Nothing the brutes can’t handle. My body across the desk, fists and nails and teeth flailing, is not a worry to them. I don’t know if I land any of my punches, but it would be only right if I did. They’ve done so much to us. The least they deserve is a scratch. A knick.
I grit my teeth as one of them slams me into my seat, the wind billowing out of me like silk - domestic.
I have forgotten which man is right and which is left. This one’s breath isn’t heavy or hard, and it smells like mint toothpaste. He doesn’t deserve the humanity in that.
“Last question, June.” His voice is an impatient growl, though I’m not so deluded as to believe there’s any fear in it. “How do we know you aren’t lying?”
My ears are buzzing, hornets, droning. I almost don’t catch this last insinuation. It makes me smirk; I can’t feel my fingers. “That’s for me to know. And for you to decide.”
Someone is lifting me by my armpits, my head rolls back and laughter gurgles from my lips like blood. I’m being taken somewhere, to Luke, to death, to Canada. Everywhere and nowhere at once. It doesn’t matter, in the end.
Did it ever?