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I felt angry and betrayed. I would be there with all my rage and anger pent up from the embarrassment and fear he had put me through in those brief, tense minutes. The day couldn’t end quickly enough for me. The final bell rings, school is officially over for another day. I race to the designated destination, not even taking time to pack my bag. As my heels click on the tile floor I climb the stairs and push open the door. I see my two tormentors, standing there, smiling. I turn and lock the door. Suddenly I fly into a rage, screaming how could he do this to me? I trusted him! With lightning reflex his hand grabs my throat, squeezes and whispers “Shut the fuck up bitch!” I submit. I’m out of line. He begins by reminding me of our weekend exchange, my agreement to completely surrender myself to his guidance and control, my place beneath him and all others. The fight in me now subsides. I drop to my knees as I find myself begging for his mercy, to make me the woman he wants me to be.. Unofficially, the policy of Lotharis was to never heal a Maharian. Clara’s teachers had been divided upon the matter, with some agreeing that it was in their own best interest not heal one of enemy nationality, and others who felt it was their duty to heal all, no matter what their country of origin. Clara had never before encountered a full blooded Maharian who had not married into Lotharisian blood. Even at the front lines of the battle, the wounded had been carefully separated, preventing any Lotharisian from crossing to the enemy side and vice versa. Now, the injured man stared at her, his gaze loose and somewhat unfocused, probably due to loss of blood. He let go of her arm and pulled the branches aside to reveal his abdomen – a raw, red mess. The sight of the blood made up Clara’s mind. She knelt beside him, trampling the branches of the bush flat as she did. She pressed her hands against his body and felt. It was a stab wound, and he’d lost a lot of blood. The blade had been.
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