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The men led me to a small prison “cell”—Omelas was too enlightened to have much use for prisons, so the cell was really just a small, lockable room. Nothing inside but a small cot and a carpeted floor. There were three police officers. The first one was quite tall, and a little muscular. He seemed to be the one in charge, and somehow looked right for the responsibility. The second one was a slightly overweight, but didn’t seem to mind. He had curly, brown hair. The last was very thin, slightly short, and wore glasses.
“So, you’re the new Child?” The leader said, “You know, the whole town’s been looking for you for a couple of days now. You have a responsibility to the people of Omelas, and you’ve been avoiding it for some time now. Isn’t that right?”
“I don’t owe anyone anything,” I answered, defiantly.
The man spit in my face. It was the first time I’d ever seen anyone spit in someone else’s face before. I’d never even considered doing it to Shitface. I’d shit on his face, but never spit on it. Though it was far from the last time someone spit on my face, and though I’d never considered doing it before, it was an immediately, inherently humiliating experience.
“You owe us everything,” the second one said.
They closed the cell door. The three of them surrounded me—the tall one in front, the one in the glasses in back. The second one laid his hand on my butt. My eyes flew open, wide, and the leader ordered the other two to take off my clothes.
“What… what are you going to do with me?” I asked, as they started fidgeting with my shirt.
“We haven’t had a female Child in twenty years,” the one in the glasses said.
“I guess you could say we’ll play it by ear,” the chubby one menaced.
As time would go on, I would realize that they were not the best rapists I’d ever had. They lacked the brutality or the pure energy that distinguish world-class rapists from the rest. The three of them were uncoordinated—stuck in the world of civility, unable to lose themselves in the dance. If they were to rape me today, I would think nothing of them. They would not destroy me, reduce me to tears, or leave me pain to remind me of their punishment. As an aside, they would not give me pleasure, as some of my rapists did. Some of my rapists—the shy, ugly ones typically—would rape me slowly, almost respectfully, and I would occasionally orgasm. They would just be like any others.
The only thing that made them stand out is that they were the first. They were the first, and I felt like dying after they did it.
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