Sneak Peak: The Harem Chapter One
Wanted to know more about The Harem after reading the Preface? We’ll, here’s your chance to read The Harem Chapter One. Listen or Read below. Enjoy!
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Chapter 1 The Inquisition
Sitting inside a hearing room of the United States Congress can be an intimidating experience. The chambers are designed specifically for emotional and psychological impact, consisting of ancient dark polished woods, stark navy blue curtains, enormous high arched ceilings, official effigies everywhere and a strange, almost alien, hush similar to some sort of sacred sanctum where human sacrifices are offered to the gods daily, mixed with the sickeningly pervasive scent of cologne and your grandmother’s coat closet.
Add to that, the notion of being questioned by professional politicians and their skillful word craft, while simultaneously being microscopically dissected by the public at large and the global media, and suddenly any stout heart grows hesitant. Sweat is the direct result of that kind of pressure cooker, no matter who you are. Fortunately, I’ve been trained for this type of escapade. My own personal experience has proven very helpful also.
My first experience with public humiliation was a pain I hoped to forget quickly and never revisit. Most people would consider nearly being torn limb from limb by an angry mob enough to cause anyone to become a buddhist monk, but most people aren’t me and haven’t learned what I know.
Tried and true experience has taught me the valuable lesson of how the world really operates. Anyone brave enough to forge their own path will be visited by many violent challenges, all motivated by jealousy, greed and envy. Many times it works, and kills great people and ideas. For me, today is simply one of those many challenges. It will not stop me.
A panel of eleven professional politicians sits before me, and several of my dearest friends, behind a raised pulpit of thick finished wood that hides their bodies, allowing only their shoulders and heads to appear above the line of sight. I briefly imagine them all as bobble heads and stifle the urge to laugh out loud. The raised semi-circle, decorated with the flag of our great nation and several iconic images representing the United States Congress, spreads out before us, forcing our necks to crick uncomfortably and eyes to look up from a position of subservience. The officials of this proceeding wallow in their assumed power by claiming the higher ground and swiveling in their high back leather recliners. Their faces scream of boredom and apathy. It occurs to me that this is the look of impending death, no real joy or passion for life present. Briefly, I pity them.
The congressman seated in the center of the pulpit leans forward smugly in his seat toward his microphone to speak. “Please give your names for the record.” The orator looks ancient and ill. His skin is incredibly wrinkled, pale and blotchy from liver spots. The thin hair he has remaining is grey and combed over the glowing crown of his head. These characteristic wouldn’t normally be offensive if he weren’t so horribly obese and sweating profusely from the effort of sitting still.
After glancing at each other, my friends and I lean forward toward the microphones placed on the table at each of our positions and begin taking turns at introductions.
“My name is Sylvia Charleson.”
“My name is Milisent Hollister.”
“My name is Gloria Chiraque.”
“My name is Susan Winthrop.”
“My name is Kathryn Ulrich.”
“My name is Francesca Montlebon.”
“My name is Cherry Heffner.”
After scribbling something that I’m sure is unimportant on his notepad, especially since the entire proceeding is simply a charade, the lead congressman leans forward to speak again, “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth to the best of your ability?” His delivery of this powerful question has the very distinct air of nonchalant boredom. It causes me to long for the introduction of mandatory limited terms to prevent career politicians from digging in so deeply and spreading their diseased thoughts like a tick.
I respond in unison with the young women I’ve come to love more than life itself, “I do.”
”This assembly will now review the case of the state of California vs. Robert J. Montgomery Jr.” As the congressman finishes his sentence, the news cameras swing wildly toward me and my companions in the hopes of catching any hint of emotional reaction, milking the sensational tit of voyeurism and jabbing their filthy noses into our personal lives.
The congressman looks directly at me first. This has been anticipated for various reasons, but doesn’t make the first round any easier. My heart starts to race and I find myself consciously controlling my breathing.
“Ms. Susan Winthrop, yes?” He queries almost mockingly.
“My name is Susan Winthrop.” My answer remains calm and controlled as if we are having lunch together and becoming newly acquainted.
“Ms. Winthrop…that is your legal name, is it not? Are you aware of why you’ve all been called to testify before this assembly?” The congressman’s words weigh of a thousand different agendas.
My legal name? Ha. Evidently, his emphasis on the word, “legal,” is an effort to exert ownership over me. Government loves to acquire assets for it’s own benefit and never misses a trick. As for his question about my forced attendance, it takes a good deal of will power not to explain that, actually, I have decided to put my life on hold and spend the next few weeks smelling his foul breath for the shear unique entertainment it provides me. He might not appreciate the sarcasm.
“Yes sir.” I respond.
“Ms. Winthrop, I see you have legal representation with you.” The congressman’s ability to state the obvious is astounding.
Placing my elbows on the witness table now, I speak into the microphone closer. “I do.”
My inquisitor continues with faux empathy. “That’s wise, considering the gravity of today’s hearing, but I’d like to explain to you that this assembly does not hold any contempt for you personally. In fact, the very real purpose of these proceedings is to discover the truth, and help find resolution should any wrong doing be uncovered.”
His face twists into what appears to be a painful half smile. I suppose he is attempting the projection of an emotion most people would label as friendliness. The result of this warping of aged skin and normally unused facial muscles is to distort the man’s face in such a way that he now appears grotesquely clown-like.
Curiously, the congressman decides to continue with the very distinct tone of a loving father explaining to his toddler why the dead bird isn’t able to fly away anymore. “In other words, we’ve only asked you here to share your experience with us, and help us to understand exactly what happened. You are not on trial and there are no accusations against you or these other young ladies.”
He briefly waves his hand in the direction of my friends with a peculiar sparkle in his eye. It would not do to indulge the thoughts that probably fill this twisted man’s mind when enjoying the view of the stunningly beautiful young women currently laid out before him. An idea flits across my consciousness. This man speaking might have a stroke if he becomes too aroused by us. I store that in the back of my mind to share with the other girls later. They’re sure to enjoy it too.
The panel director continues, “I would only hope to encourage you to understand that we are here to assist, as best we can, and hope that you would see this gathering and it’s processes as helpful in discovering that truth. Our hope is to impress upon you that this assembly has your best interests in mind and would truly appreciate your cooperation.”
“I bet you would,” is the first thought that springs to mind, but I manage to wrestle that instinct back into it’s corral and remain stoic and impassive, leaving the very distinct impression with the assembly that their half-hearted attempt at courtesy has failed miserably.
This is only the beginning of weeks of interviews, testimonials, inquiries, panels and discovery, all leading to some kangaroo court version of a decision. Millions and millions of taxpayer dollars thoroughly wasted for the advancement and celebrity of this serpent sitting before me as judge and jury of everything I love.
Already, I’m completely uninterested in this panel and disgusted by it’s representatives, and the hearings have only just begun.
I didn’t used to be so bold or brave. In fact, most people never noticed me at all. It’s not difficult to go unnoticed when your performance is consistently average. Don’t misunderstand me. There were a few special individuals I would consider friends. Perhaps by other’s standards, they would be described as acquaintances, but that was all I had, save one very dear girl, Sylvia Charleson.
We met while I was still in high school and became instant friends. Real friends. Sylvia was from a wealthy family that had trouble sharing emotions and showing affection. After attending boarding schools for most of her childhood, her college experience was nothing new. She helped me secure grants for my college attendance and even put in a good word for me. Her family name has influence.
Sylvia was a natural at making friends and took me on as her personal project. It quickly became her mission to correct all of my social awkwardness and grow me into the queen of the ball that she believed I could be. She can be a bit delusional at times, possibly manic even.
I didn’t mind the attention, though. No one had ever paid much attention to me after all. What’s more, I believe she really wanted to help; no hidden agenda or position to secure. She just had a way about her that drew me and others to her, and she loved it. Anyone could see she needed the attention. Boys usually took advantage of that. Afterwards, Sylvia would always come and cry on my shoulder. I would feign mild irritation at the drama, but deep down I really loved her and her need for me. It’s nice to have someone who counts on me like that.
Come to think about it, she’s the main reason I’m here at all. An argument would spring forth immediately if she heard me suggest such a thing. “It’s all your own responsibility,” she would insist. Eventually, I would agree. However, without her the last three years of wonderment might not have happened. Sylvia Charleson prompted me to become the person I am now and I love her for it.
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Until more . . .
Thanks for reading and listening!
- The Harem