“Keep your head down!” The seller’s harsh voice snaps, crack of his cane reverberating through the floor.

My eyes dart back to my feet, breath held in anticipation of punishment.

The seller nods his approval of my subservience. Cold gaze racking over me once more before lifting his chin. His shoulders roll, easing the tension accumulating there.

“I do not expect you to please the buyer coming today,” he doesn’t look at me when he speaks, only when he’s punishing, “But you will not embarrass me. Is that clear?”

                “Yes.” I answer, careful to keep my voice as small as possible while still being heard. I do not lift my head again while we wait in silence, my curiosity towards the room not worth the welts his cane will leave on my skin. I’ve never been allowed in the seller’s office before; none of the buyers have ever browsed through the catalog and requested to see me.

                I have a curse. A touch of magic. Sometimes a slave with magic is highly sought after. I’ve met a few in my time, others who could do amazing things. They were well fed, kept clean and warm, but they never stayed for long. The watchers pulling them away for viewing’s, never to return to the store house. My touch doesn’t make me valuable. It’s an oddity, something most find unpleasant, and because of that, no buyer has ever wanted to view me. Before today that is.

                The door sweeps open, the shockwave of air rising goosebumps over my exposed skin, my pulse quickens, pounding in my ears. Curiosity begs my eyes to pull up, to gaze upon the person who wanted to see me, even if just for laughs, or to satisfy their own sort of curiosity. But the sellers harsh warning keeps them glued to my feet, afraid to so much as breath.

                “Good evening, sir,” the seller’s tone is one I’ve never heard from him before, polite, reverent, the tone I’ve been taught to use when speaking to those above me. “I hope you had a pleasant journey?”

                There is a click of heeled shoes on polished wood floors, a few sure steps closer, until the shiny brown toes of leather shoes can be seen at the edges of my vision.

                “Pleasant enough.”

I almost gasp at the deep rich sound of the buyer’s voice, but I know better than to make a sound, I’ve been well trained.

“This is the one?” he speaks again, coming a step closer.

“It is!” The seller announces, lifting a hand to wave over me in display, “Please feel free to take a closer look. Her details in the catalogue are kept properly up to date. You will find no discrepancies.” The seller’s voice is still polite, but quite proud. He takes no pride in me of course, but in his work. He inherited this business from his father and works very meticulously to ensure his father’s reputation is upheld.

The buyer moves closer again, now I can see long legs in crisply ironed pants, tailored to fit perfectly, the buyer’s hands rest easily in his pockets, arms holding back the flaps on his suit jacket.

I can feel the weight of his eyes on my head, feel his judgement falling over me.

“These ‘visions’,” his voice echoes in my soul, “Do they only come at random, or can she force one?”

The question isn’t meant for me, and I know better than to speak out of turn.

“We’ve trained her to call them at will,” the seller answers, “They will still come at random also. Unfortunately, nothing we’ve done was able to keep them at bay when they want to pop up on their own.” I flinch at the memory of that training, at the hint of irritation in the seller’s voice as he is forced to inform his buyer of his failure to make me more palatable. “She can call one if you wish? But I will remind you, her predictions make no sense without an interpreter. She is an incomplete set.”

My chest tightens at his words, my curse that should have been a blessing. I am half of a whole that is no more and can never be again.

My twin, the perfect complement to my touch of magic, together we would have been highly sought after, wanted and well cared for. I have visions of the future, and my twin could unravel my riddles so they could be understood.

But my twin is gone. And alone my visions are frightening.

I am useless as an ordinary slave, my visions come at random, making it unsafe for me to preform many basic tasks. So, my only value is as an oddity, a conversation piece for someone who is drawn to the macabre.

The seller was kind to keep me, or just unwilling to completely lose out on his investment, sure that one day he would be able to find the right buyer.

“I am aware.” The buyer sighs, “Still, I wish to see one of these visions.”

“Of course, sir.” The seller responds with a tap of his cane.

My body reacts instantly to my cue, well trained to follow my set commands. A deep breath fills my lungs, my eyes fluttering shut.

I fall, deep into myself, further and farther into the abyss residing within me, to the place where the future keeps its secrets.

It’s cold and ugly, even in the darkness where I can see nothing, I am repulsed by it. The future is never kind to me, fiercely lashing out every time I come here, even when I have no choice and the world falls out from under my feet, plunging me down into its domain, the future has no mercy.

It wants to keep it secrets.

It fights me, burns me from the inside out as words pour from my mouth, a prophecy I am too far away to hear. I don’t resist, allowing waves of pain to crash over me. I can’t allow my vison to be incomplete. My words make no sense to those listening, but I’m told an unfinished riddle is worse than a riddle that can’t be solved. I must not disappoint the seller, the pain here in this imagined place is intense, but temporary. When I open my eyes, it will be gone. And If I’ve failed to please, the seller will insure I know pain that is lasting.

As the last bit of the future travels up through me to the present I feel the tether that holds me here release. The future roars its displeasure as I ascend, snapped like a taut cord back to where I belong.

With a strangled gasp my eyes fly open. Coming back is always worse than going down. My head spins and I would fall if not for the arms that wrap around me.

The eyes staring back at me do not belong to the seller. My instincts scream at me the gross impropriety of the situation, how dare I nearly faint and force a buyer to catch me. I try to pull away, but the buyer has a tight hold on me and a grin so wicked I am frozen in place. The man’s youth has passed, gray hairs dot his hair and speckle throughout his neatly trimmed beard, yet there is no frailty in his arms. I am cradled, like a treasured thing. My buyer’s eyes alight with childlike wonder.

“I’ll take her.”

 These words aren’t meant for me either, but my buyer’s eyes stay locked with mine as he says them, informing the seller his wait has finally paid off. 

The end