Three days passed since the incident.
The atmosphere in the house turned frigid.
I didn't say much. I only handed her grocery money, ate my meals, then spent the rest of the time reading or lost in thought.
Alicia sank deeper into her guilt. She moved like a ghost, avoiding my gaze as if her very existence were a sin.
Late afternoon.
The sky was a reddish-orange, casting a melancholic light into the living room.
I sat in my recliner, watching the dust motes drift through the air.
Alicia approached.
She didn't bring tea. She didn't bring food.
She stepped closer, then knelt beside my chair. She lowered her head until her forehead touched the cold marble floor.
Dogeza.
"Master..." her voice was hoarse. "Master, please punish me."
I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. My cigarette was almost burnt out.
"For what?"
"Because I rejected your will. Because I am incompetent. Because I made you angry and caused you to be silent for three days."
Her shoulders shook.
"Please, strike me. Or lock me away. Do anything... but please don't give me silence. This uncertainty is killing me."
I remained silent.
She was right.
To a slave, or someone deeply traumatized, silence was the worst kind of torture. In the silence, their imagination conjured punishments far more horrifying than reality.
She needed certainty. She needed structure. She needed to know where she stood.
I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray.
I turned to face her.
"You want to be punished?"
"Yes, Master. Please."
"Get up. Give me your hand."
Alicia lifted her face. Her eyes were red and swollen. She extended her trembling right hand, palm facing up. Perhaps she thought I was going to strike her palm with a ruler, or burn her with a cigarette.
I took her hand.
A hand made rough from forced labor, yet retaining the slender, graceful fingers of an aristocratic upbringing.
I didn't strike her.
I held it.
Firmly. Warmly. Intertwining my fingers through the spaces of hers.
Alicia's eyes widened. Her breath hitched.
She stared at our clasped hands.
"This is your punishment," I whispered. "You are forbidden from letting go until I tell you to."
"M-Master...?"
"You feel like you aren't real, Alicia. You feel like a ghost who will be discarded the moment you make a mistake. So feel this."
I squeezed her hand a little tighter.
"This is my body heat. This is the texture of my skin. You are here. You are real. And I am holding your hand."
Tears fell from her eyes once more, but this time, not out of fear.
Her defenses crumbled. The mask of the 'Perfect Servant' shattered.
She sobbed uncontrollably, pouring out all her terror, her insecurities, and her trauma. She bowed her head, pressing her lips to the back of my hand, using my grip as an anchor to keep from drowning in her own madness.
I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair.
Letting her cry.
Letting her feel that she was still a human being, one who was allowed to feel pain and fear.
And strangely enough... as I held her trembling hand, the emptiness in my own chest felt just a little bit lighter.