(Menial 63700578—Jake)
When he wasn’t working, Menial 63700578 went by the name of Jake. Jake wanted to get his hands on Madeleine Burroughs. He wanted to run his fingers through her thick chestnut hair and possibly, maybe, perhaps, get close enough to her so he could draw in her scent. And not the wafting scent of her perfume that trailed behind her everywhere she walked—he wanted to smell the deep earthy scent of her natural skin. Fresh on her. Instead of the way he usually smelt it on the crumpled clothes she left for him to pick up off her bedroom floor. Jake wanted to get his hands on Madeleine Burroughs, have her look him in the face and whisper ‘Jake’.
Sometimes he imagined being pressed up against Madeleine in a close embrace, skin to skin, tight enough that even in his imagination he could not tell where her skin ended and his began, all was just smooth, pale and soft.
Of course, he didn’t talk about this. He hardly allowed himself to think about it. But on the odd occasion, when it was all too much, he would go on the In and find the confessor.
Before Jake had met the confessor, he didn’t understand what the thought of Madeleine Burroughs did to him. He didn’t have the words to describe his thoughts and feelings about her. The confessor had given him words.
He remembered his first confession. His chosen face floated in the cloud, a passive expression pasted to it, giving no sign of how clueless he was. All he knew was that his thoughts were wrong and overwhelming and he couldn’t understand what was happening in his head.
He was afraid that first time; scared that he was part of a scam, that his private thoughts were not private at all and that soon everyone would know how damaged he was. The confessor was patient with him.
‘I don’t know your name. I don’t know where you’re from, what level of the hierarchy you’re on, what you look like. This face you’re using for this conversation is all that I know about you. There’s no way for anything that you say to be tracked back to you personally.’
Jake still didn’t speak.
‘It’s okay,’ the confessor said. ‘You don’t need to speak. But remember, this is about letting go of the feelings that affect your day-to-day existence. Confession is a way to unburden yourself. It’s a service, not a trap.’
Jake let the confessor talk for a while. He didn’t say a word; he just breathed into his comline and waited. He didn’t know what he was waiting for but he knew when the waiting was over.
‘I look at her,’ he said, when he was ready.
‘Who?’ asked the confessor.
‘I…’
‘It’s okay. You don’t need to use names if it’s difficult for you. You could make up a name if that’s easier?’
‘No. No, she’s just … her. The woman.’
‘The woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you look at this woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know there is nothing wrong with looking at people?’
‘No, I … I look at her.’ Jake didn’t know how else to say it.
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’
‘She … when I look at her I have … feelings.’
‘Can you describe these feelings?’
‘I don’t … I don’t have words.’
‘Can you tell me what happens when you have these feelings?’
That was difficult. It wasn’t complicated; it was just hard to say it out loud. He did, though. Eventually.
‘I touch myself.’
‘Where?’ asked the confessor.
‘I touch my … penis? Is that the word for it?’ Jake knew the question gave away that he was a menial. Only a menial would struggle this much with words. It wasn’t necessary for them to learn any vocabulary beyond what they needed in training. But he thought ‘penis’ was the right word. He had come across it on the In. It seemed right.
‘What you use to urinate?’
‘Yes! Yes. My penis.’
‘So, when you look at this woman you touch your penis?’ asked the confessor.
Copyright © 2022 by Joma West
