Chapter 1: The Contract that Owned Time
1814 Words
The memory did not come as a whole.
Only fragments.
A dim room.
Rain against glass.
And there was a voice that she never truly possessed in her heart.
When the plan has been successful, you will forget it.
In the fresh and breathtaking moment, Amara felt disorderly before her feet touched the cold floor.
She had learned to hate that memory.
No, it was not hurtful.
It never seemed so to her, but.
It was as if something had been placed in her life before, sealing everything up.
And now it came about once more.
I was not wet as it rained in Lagos.
It was as much as possible of a monotonous sort.
It felt as if the sky were completely unrelated to the situation.
Several minutes later, Amara, as if paralysed in the presence of Maxwell Enterprises, waited motionless until a few minutes had passed and her clothing was thoroughly wet from the rain.
It could not.
The bag she carried contained a hospital bill, which had been folded too many times.
It was not even that awful; in fact, it was worse than the poor thing – there was something even more troubling in her chest.
Finality.
Her mother was no longer responding to treatment.
The hospital could no longer pretend that time could be negotiated or extended.
That morning, no questions were asked.
She only listened.
A man.
An uncouth voice.
Happening to find a solution which did not seem to me to mean help--
and a more reminiscent design.
Now she was in the presence of a tower of glass and steel, lightning behind it, as though the sky were self-defying what it possessed in it.
When one of the guards last asked her to go forward.
'It's you,' he said.
Not a question.
A confirmation.
All the indoor controls were done.
Too clean.
Too quiet.
But there were no beginnings of peace, no possibilities of community, but discipline and the strict impositions of conformity, which encouraged uniformity in all things, uniformity that emphasised a rejection of individuality and freedom, a limitation of expression, and a repression of self-expression.
There was the migration of a human being, a movement that contradicts the act of individuals' instincts, treated as dolls in the procession of our lives, that stood for the confrontation of conformity and individuality, of a society that strives to dominate the individual instead of giving him/her his/her personal space.
All of this was as though it were scripted for her, as if she were deemed more by what she had to offer rather than who she was.
Not identity.
Utility.
They ushered her through long hallways that stretched out as they went, like distance being one of the pressures.
At the very end was a door.
Black.
No name.
And not a single sparkle passed by.
Only presence.
The guard stopped.
“You go in alone.”
Amara hesitated.
What is the fate awaiting me in case I do not enjoy the contents of the same?
The guard smiled appraisingly at Amara, who was wearing a half-smile.
No time to fall in love with it, he said. You just need to determine how feeble it makes you feel.
And then, one time, he struck.
And left.
“Enter.”
The voice was calm.
Not loud.
Not soft.
Final.
Amara swung the door open.
The room appeared to have been closed to the world.
The glass panel between the floors and the ceiling divided the smooth darkness, which was cut at an angle.
And behind a big oak desk he sat.
Damian Maxwell.
He did not even make a glance up.
He was reading.
The arrival of the message still needed clarification.
As Amara's eyes finally met his, she experienced the moment immediately.
Not recognition.
Assessment.
Reduction.
Why have you been so late? , he said.
'I had not been told when,' she replied.
A pause.
Then his eyes were darting down to the envelope in her hand.
“You brought it.”
“Yes.”
“Put it down.”
No emotion.
No softness.
Just command.
She did what she was told → Here's the way she made her decision.
This order wasn't as upsetting to her as that was.
Damian opened up the envelope.
Read it.
No reaction.
That did not go unnoticed.
The emotion it was that was made less necessary by the control.
There was a smoky silence for some time after, and then he said.
What do you know this is? ".
You can't afford to hire someone,' and she said, 'A contract.’
And he reproved your mother.
There was something in his voice that raised an alarm in her heart.
“Yes.”
An almost gleaming spark came to his eyes.
Brief.
Contained.
Not sympathy.
Recognition.
As she screwed in a component that had been forged, she focused intently on her task.
He stood.
And with him, the room was transformed.
Not louder.
Heavier.
Did you win the lottery? , he said.
Amara frowned slightly.
“Oh, I didn't apply for any of those.”
“I know.”
This was as bad as rejection was for her.
What do you mean then? said she.
“Seeing that, Damian drew a halt in front of her.
He was not far off, and thus she experienced a lack of privacy.
“Shore, am I clean," he proclaimed.
“Clean?”
No meddling. No sticking around. There is no opposition to external influences.
Those were the words that clenched her stomach.
"That is disposal," she said.
It is economics; he worked in it.
That word again.
Efficiency.
Not cruelty.
Not desire.
Function.
He went round and pushed a button.
Paper 2 was postponed.
He laid it on her.
“Read.”
She did.
At first quickly.
Then slower.
Then she stopped.
No, no,' she said, right away.
Damian replied, 'Not.'
Just what two married individuals have decided on.
“Yes.”
“You’re insane.”
His head was back-turned.
Outcome-Relevant?
I am not even acquainted with you.
“You will adapt.”
“That’s not marriage.”
It is the immortal legal abode.
'Hit' was a new term.
Permanence.
Not union.
Not love.
Something irreversible.
Amara stepped back.
“I’m leaving.”
She banged on the door.
“Stop.”
Did the knock fail to raise the alarm?
It pressed.
She stood in silence; she did not realise that she obeyed.
Her fingers tightened.
'I disobey you,' said she.
Damian gazed at her.
And for the first time ever--
Something shifted.
Not emotion.
Pressure.
'Well, you are,' he said.
That was an erroneous sentence.
Not a threat.
Confirmation.
The girl Amara gazed around her.
Young lady, turn to me to assist you. “Not ownership.”
The appearance of Damian grew a touch small.
The first instance of this behaviour was when he struggled to maintain control.
Not collapse.
Containment.
It is not ownership, he said.
“What is it then?”
He paused.
Longer than before.
And in that pause—
There was something in him that could not be described.
Finally—
“Containment,” he said.
Amara moved again.
Toward the door.
This time faster.
She reached it.
And again said Damian.
Not louder.
Sharper.
Your mom has already been taken to full care.
The words hit.
Her hand stopped.
A pause—
Then her reign had an end.
Not fully.
But enough.
“Don’t,” she said.
Damian didn’t respond.
'No,' I said. 'Don't go using her like that,' so I reasoned when I broke it once. You have no opportunity whatsoever to select what the fright I live within is!
Silence.
It was absorbed by the room.
Amara now returned, and, during the breathing, he did it in an irregular fashion.
She is dying; that is why I came here and why my voice trembles under its chains. It is not my desire to be possessed.
That word again.
Ownership.
It was heavy now.
Real weight.
Even Damian paused.
Just once.
Not feeling – Experience of effect.
He took one step in the direction.
Delay, said he, is the other.
The single-word sentence suspended the entire matter in limbo.
Delay.
Not a threat.
Reality.
Amara’s breath trembled.
And round she turned.
Not calm.
Not composed.
But lengthening no more.
How do I come to this? She questioned herself.
Damian gazed at her.
For the first time—
control was to remain, rather than be absolute.
“Necessary,” he said.
“That’s not an answer.”
It is the only one that survives consequences; this is the only one.
It is raining more heavily out there.
The sky was torn apart by lightning.
It was the pen that Amara was leading with in her hand.
Stopped.
'I,' she said, 'am not going into disappearance within this.'
Damian slightly intensified his gaze.
Not so much so.
A pause.
Then—
“It is probability.”
Something of hers responded to that word.
Probability.
Not a choice.
Not mercy.
Calculation.
Between her fingers, there was a pen.
Every instinct resisted.
The issue of survival is, however, not negotiable.
It will not even pick up what is broken at first.
Her hand dropped.
She signed.
Silence followed.
Damian did not promptly reply.
He waited until the ink settled.
It would be like confirmation of the achievement of a long-term task.
And then he stamped the paper.
Locked it.
Final.
As to you, you are a slave—' replied he.
Amara stood slowly.
She spoke softly.
“That’s it?”
Damian gazed at her.
“No.”
It was a snappy word.
Final.
And more than ever before it came.
He stepped closer.
Sealing up between them with air.
Up to which we came, I think you did not peruse, he said.
Amara's pulse slowed.
“What clause?”
Damian was gazing at her downness.
The first time--
Something unguarded surfaced.
Not a weakness.
Warning.
Then it vanished.
“Not yet,” he said.
Amara turned about and turned to the door.
She paused once.
Without turning fully—
“Am I still me?”
It was a horrible silence.
Here is an idea for Damian:
There was never a time when you didn't have an assignment.
She left.
The door closed.
Not like the ending.
Like sealing.
Outside, the rain had not subsided.
However, her cell phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message.
“Medical status updated.”
There was even a second and a third.
“Confirmation complete"
Then a third.
One line only.
I picked you without prior permission.
Amara froze.
Slowly she lifted her gaze to the tower.
On the top story.
It was a single light that fluttered into existence.
Then off.
Then on again.
And over behind that glass--
Damian did not do anything.
But it's the first time.
His hand had not been as perfectly still.
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