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Her bony limbs seemed so vulnerable in the sun, as she pushed her clasped hands down between the angles of her knees. “No, I don’t,” Sweetness admitted. “I don’t understand at all. Joy always made love to me. Why don’t you? What’s wrong with me? Don’t you like me? Do I look so horrible?” Sharon was aware that tears were running down Sweetness’ nose, and one droplet hung precipitously from its end. But she couldn’t relent. It wasn’t right. “Come on, Sweetness,” she said gently, putting a hand on Sweetness’ own clasped ones. “We have enough to do. We have to somehow find things to eat. And we’ve got to get away from here.” She lifted Sweetness’ head up by her chin and gazed into her face. The girl was quite pretty, if horribly malnourished. The cuts and bruises on her face detracted from her attractiveness. Her cheeks were sunk in, there was a dark mark around one of her eyes, and her lips were cracked and the lower one slightly split. “We must get moving.” “But where to?” wondered. Despite what he did to that woman in a fit of passion and rage, he was still a man. The noise that awoke him was not the door of his cell being opened. He had long ago given up hope of trying to escape. He had tuned out most of the noises of the compound that was his jail, including other slaves exchanging his slop pail and bringing him his meals. They knew not to disturb him, they knew to leave the food on the floor near the door. The morning meal was never anything that held his interest anyways, some bread, water, maybe a few figs or olives. A step up from the slop they used to serve him, but no meat, no cheese, and certainly no ale. No, meat and cheese were for the evening meal perhaps, but never breakfast. No, the cell door opening barely even registered in his slumbering mind. What woke him from his slumber, from his dreams of home, was the gasp. He had heard and on some level understood that someone was being pushed into the cell with him. His warrior instinct took him from.
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