Fandom: The Handmaid's Tale

Characters: Offred

Author: m_findlow

Rating: M

Length: 652 words

Content notes: none

Author notes: Written for Challenge 255 - Amnesty and Challenge 175 - Square (Bingo square)

Summary: Offred's life is full of contradictions.


The room is square. That always strikes me as odd. Rooms aren't meant to be square. It feels unnatural for something to be so perfect a shape, but I've measured it. I have nothing but time for entertaining thoughts like that.

My hand is seven inches from the base of my palm to the tip of my middle finger. I used it to measure every aspect, committing them to memory as if it is vitally important. The room is eighteen feet square. The bathroom is seven foot five by nine, and the closet three and a half by five. That's just over four hundred square feet. You won't believe how long it took to do that kind of math without writing it down, but at least it filled in time. After all, I've got loads of time.

It feels like a lot of room when you multiply it out like that. Prisoners don't get that much space. You used to see the cells on television shows. They were always pokey little spaces, maybe six or seven feet across and fifteen deep. Room enough for a narrow bed and a toilet, maybe a desk. A lot less than what I've got. All those dozens of feet of space and yet nothing has ever felt more claustrophobic. It's like my own personal prison cell in a way, but it's also something of a sanctuary. Mrs Waterford won't come in here unless she has to. There's a barrier at the threshold, like she can sense the depravity; as if every woman who steps over that invisible line becomes condemned somehow. Maybe she thinks it's contagious, whatever we have - Handmaid-itis. Only I wish I had a desk, and maybe something to write on, or a book to read, but that's not allowed anymore. Writing will find you a place on the wall. Even doodling in the dust is dangerous. There's only one book these days, and even reading that is sacrosanct.

The whole house is full of strange contradictions. I wonder who used to occupy such a room in the time before there were wives and handmaids. Perhaps a spirited teenager with posters of topless soap stars and grunge rock bands. I wonder if the closet held other secrets, like trashy magazines, condoms and snap lock bags full of marijuana. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. As fine a mantra as you could hope for, I suppose, if you were a teenager.

I wonder, has anyone else measured the size of this room? Has anyone else noted its perfect symmetry? What will become of it after I'm gone? I suppose when the baby comes, it will become a nursery. No longer a prison or a sanctuary, but a place of worship. A living, breathing gift from God come to reside in this house. Of course, that's assuming the Commander has it in him to get me pregnant. Funny how once upon a time we used to worry about getting pregnant from having unprotected sex. We used to pop pills just so we didn't have to think about it. Now even a handmaid prays for a baby, knowing full well it'll be stolen away from her just as soon as possible. It's a pity about the sex part, though. Then again, let's not pretend it's something it isn't. It's rape. I wonder, if the Commander's wife is there for the ceremony, does that make it gang rape?

If it doesn't happen soon, what then? Will they try another handmaid? Will she be able to survive this any better than me? Will she kill herself rather than put up with the degradation? Whatever Aunt Lydia says, it's all crap. There's no honour in this. It's a never ending circle of ceremonies, loveless triangles and this perfect square room.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

I won't, because I hate them too much to let them take it all away from me.