It would've been more efficient, Karen thinks, to process Frank while she signed all the paperwork. They could be done already. Instead, she's left standing awkwardly by his empty cage in the chilly din of the warehouse. The cops who were primed to come to Lantz's defense have long since wandered away. Even decent cop makes a vague excuse and leaves her.
The memory of the stuffy heat in the processing office leaches from her skin, the sweat pooled at the small of her back turning into a lightning rod for the cold air. Careful not to make eye contact with any of the other 'customers' (Jesus Christ. She bought a person. She owns a person now. There's paperwork and everything), Karen finally manages to untangle her coat from her purse strap. A man with barn door shoulders and a cellphone glued to his ear barges down the path in front of her her, speaking loudly in what might be Russian but certainly is Eastern European. The woman in the cage just past Frank's shrinks in on herself, facing away from the bars, and Karen's a coward because she lets herself look away.
There's this whole world she never even knew about. Sure, she knows about collars. Considered becoming one herself more than once. In college, after... everything it was tempting. Turning over responsibility to someone else. Never having to worry about money again. Hell, there were times back at her dad's diner when she figured it'd be the quickest way to pay for his last idiotic purchase they couldn't afford. Point is. She knows about collars. Knows about the auction houses and the glorified shelters, and the court workers with slim leather bands around their throats. But this is-- brand new territory. And maybe she's as naive as Matt thinks she is, but she didn't think legal collar trade could look like this. Not in the US.
The soft-hard vowels of maybe-Russian fades away as the man continues down the line. The woman in the cage relaxes, pressing her forehead against the bars for a moment before remembering herself and straightening. Karen puts her coat back on in a slow and awkward dance of passing purse and file between her hands as she works her hands through the sleeves. The black-and-white, photo-copied pamphlet slips from the manila folder and flutters to the ground.
Karen considers the thick file in her hand, the mess of papers threatening to tumble to the ground in solidarity. It would pass the time, but she's not sure she's ready to know everything inside of it yet. Careful not to catch the folder or any of its papers on the zipper, she jams the whole thing into her purse before bending and grabbing the pamphlet. A shout goes up from somewhere in the row of cages in front of her, and Karen straightens quickly. She crumples the pamphlet in her hand and shoves it into her coat pocket like she's been caught doing something illegal.
Frank's not gone long. Just long enough for the cold and the smell and the noise to start to get to Karen. The wailing from one of the cages isn't even the worst. It should be. Sobs torn from the throat of an otherwise tough-looking man too despondent to care that he's openly crying. No. The worst is the sounds of fists or leather straps thunking into bodies and the gasps or yelps that follow. It's so routine.
(This can't be legal. But it is. But it shouldn't be.)
Karen looks up at the sound of boots on muddy concrete announcing Frank's return with the processing team. The nausea from earlier never really left her, and it sits pretty in her throat now, growing with each passing moment. She's tugged the coat closed around herself, holding it in place and hunching her shoulders forward. Her shoes -- shouldn't have worn heels today -- scuff against the floor as she switches her weight from one foot to the other.
Frank looks better, and worse, than earlier. Without the layer of grime, the bruises stand out more. Startling exclamation points on skin that's washed out beneath the neutral collar wear. (Beige clearly isn't his color.)
He'll need a coat. The protest dies a silent death before even making it to Karen's throat. The processing team don't seem like they care, and she doesn't really want to stick around long enough for someone to scrounge something up. It doesn't seem like they have standard issue outerwear for their collars. Karen would offer up her own coat, but his shoulders would split the seams.
Her hand startles around the leash that's pressed into her palm, fingers closing around it automatically. It feels heavier than it has any right to, just like the key which sits heavy in her other hand.
"Thank you," she says, the phrase as automatic as her hands accepting what she was just handed. The team leaves without another word and she's left standing alone with a murderer. Her murderer, to be exact.
It's easier to think about the warehouse and all its implications than it is to think about what will happen when Frank is returned to her. Easier to rage against an unfair system than consider what will happen when she brings him home. Her plan begins and ends right here.
They stand in silence. Frank's eyes on the floor. Karen's eyes on Frank.
"Okay," she finally says. She can do this. They're expecting her to walk him out just like this. Maybe she should. Maybe it'd be easier. But there's no way she's walking him out with his hands cuffed behind his back. Something inside of her balks at the very idea. One misstep, a slick of ice or mud, and he could fall on his face with no way to catch himself. It's a short distance from here to her car, he'd probably be fine. But probably doesn't cut it. (And honestly, the longer she keeps him cuffed, the longer she'll be tempted to keep him that way. There's a flutter of fear in throat that she refuses to listen to.)
Karen loops the leash around her wrist -- he's not a dog bound to wander off or make a run for it if she lets go of his leash, but there are expectations and maybe she needs to keep that false sense of control for herself -- and walks around him. Could've ordered him to turn, but she's not sure he would have, so here she is now. Staring at his split and bruised knuckles and fighting the ever-present nausea trying to climb up her throat.
He's a mess. (Her mess. Her responsibility.)
Her fingers are less steady than she wants them to be, and she brushes them against metal and skin both as she unlocks first one cuff and then the other. They fall with a soft rattle, stopping short at the end of the chain.
Karen's eyes lift to the nape of Frank's neck. His hair is still damp, presumably from the shower they made him take, and she frowns at it. Cold hair and no coat. Thank god she parked close. Gently, she unhooks the chain from his collar, fingertips accidentally brushing against his skin.
"Sorry," she mumbles as she jumbles the chain and the cuffs up in her hands with a sharp rattle. The leash may be humiliating, but at least it's not as dehumanizing as the cuffs.
Her purse is full, so she has to keep the awkward bundle of chains in her hands.
"Ready?" She touches his elbow, rather than tugging on the leash, in a gentle prompt towards the door to the outside. She's so ready to smell fresh air again. Even if it's full of rotting sea weed.
no subject
The memory of the stuffy heat in the processing office leaches from her skin, the sweat pooled at the small of her back turning into a lightning rod for the cold air. Careful not to make eye contact with any of the other 'customers' (Jesus Christ. She bought a person. She owns a person now. There's paperwork and everything), Karen finally manages to untangle her coat from her purse strap. A man with barn door shoulders and a cellphone glued to his ear barges down the path in front of her her, speaking loudly in what might be Russian but certainly is Eastern European. The woman in the cage just past Frank's shrinks in on herself, facing away from the bars, and Karen's a coward because she lets herself look away.
There's this whole world she never even knew about. Sure, she knows about collars. Considered becoming one herself more than once. In college, after... everything it was tempting. Turning over responsibility to someone else. Never having to worry about money again. Hell, there were times back at her dad's diner when she figured it'd be the quickest way to pay for his last idiotic purchase they couldn't afford. Point is. She knows about collars. Knows about the auction houses and the glorified shelters, and the court workers with slim leather bands around their throats. But this is-- brand new territory. And maybe she's as naive as Matt thinks she is, but she didn't think legal collar trade could look like this. Not in the US.
The soft-hard vowels of maybe-Russian fades away as the man continues down the line. The woman in the cage relaxes, pressing her forehead against the bars for a moment before remembering herself and straightening. Karen puts her coat back on in a slow and awkward dance of passing purse and file between her hands as she works her hands through the sleeves. The black-and-white, photo-copied pamphlet slips from the manila folder and flutters to the ground.
Karen considers the thick file in her hand, the mess of papers threatening to tumble to the ground in solidarity. It would pass the time, but she's not sure she's ready to know everything inside of it yet. Careful not to catch the folder or any of its papers on the zipper, she jams the whole thing into her purse before bending and grabbing the pamphlet. A shout goes up from somewhere in the row of cages in front of her, and Karen straightens quickly. She crumples the pamphlet in her hand and shoves it into her coat pocket like she's been caught doing something illegal.
Frank's not gone long. Just long enough for the cold and the smell and the noise to start to get to Karen. The wailing from one of the cages isn't even the worst. It should be. Sobs torn from the throat of an otherwise tough-looking man too despondent to care that he's openly crying. No. The worst is the sounds of fists or leather straps thunking into bodies and the gasps or yelps that follow. It's so routine.
(This can't be legal. But it is. But it shouldn't be.)
Karen looks up at the sound of boots on muddy concrete announcing Frank's return with the processing team. The nausea from earlier never really left her, and it sits pretty in her throat now, growing with each passing moment. She's tugged the coat closed around herself, holding it in place and hunching her shoulders forward. Her shoes -- shouldn't have worn heels today -- scuff against the floor as she switches her weight from one foot to the other.
Frank looks better, and worse, than earlier. Without the layer of grime, the bruises stand out more. Startling exclamation points on skin that's washed out beneath the neutral collar wear. (Beige clearly isn't his color.)
He'll need a coat. The protest dies a silent death before even making it to Karen's throat. The processing team don't seem like they care, and she doesn't really want to stick around long enough for someone to scrounge something up. It doesn't seem like they have standard issue outerwear for their collars. Karen would offer up her own coat, but his shoulders would split the seams.
Her hand startles around the leash that's pressed into her palm, fingers closing around it automatically. It feels heavier than it has any right to, just like the key which sits heavy in her other hand.
"Thank you," she says, the phrase as automatic as her hands accepting what she was just handed. The team leaves without another word and she's left standing alone with a murderer. Her murderer, to be exact.
It's easier to think about the warehouse and all its implications than it is to think about what will happen when Frank is returned to her. Easier to rage against an unfair system than consider what will happen when she brings him home. Her plan begins and ends right here.
They stand in silence. Frank's eyes on the floor. Karen's eyes on Frank.
"Okay," she finally says. She can do this. They're expecting her to walk him out just like this. Maybe she should. Maybe it'd be easier. But there's no way she's walking him out with his hands cuffed behind his back. Something inside of her balks at the very idea. One misstep, a slick of ice or mud, and he could fall on his face with no way to catch himself. It's a short distance from here to her car, he'd probably be fine. But probably doesn't cut it. (And honestly, the longer she keeps him cuffed, the longer she'll be tempted to keep him that way. There's a flutter of fear in throat that she refuses to listen to.)
Karen loops the leash around her wrist -- he's not a dog bound to wander off or make a run for it if she lets go of his leash, but there are expectations and maybe she needs to keep that false sense of control for herself -- and walks around him. Could've ordered him to turn, but she's not sure he would have, so here she is now. Staring at his split and bruised knuckles and fighting the ever-present nausea trying to climb up her throat.
He's a mess. (Her mess. Her responsibility.)
Her fingers are less steady than she wants them to be, and she brushes them against metal and skin both as she unlocks first one cuff and then the other. They fall with a soft rattle, stopping short at the end of the chain.
Karen's eyes lift to the nape of Frank's neck. His hair is still damp, presumably from the shower they made him take, and she frowns at it. Cold hair and no coat. Thank god she parked close. Gently, she unhooks the chain from his collar, fingertips accidentally brushing against his skin.
"Sorry," she mumbles as she jumbles the chain and the cuffs up in her hands with a sharp rattle. The leash may be humiliating, but at least it's not as dehumanizing as the cuffs.
Her purse is full, so she has to keep the awkward bundle of chains in her hands.
"Ready?" She touches his elbow, rather than tugging on the leash, in a gentle prompt towards the door to the outside. She's so ready to smell fresh air again. Even if it's full of rotting sea weed.