Tag You’re It ~ Grey Baker
I was born with a tag attached to my ear. It read:
Girl, Jane Doe
Virgin
Age: 1 second
Price: A good number of sleepless nights
I assume I was filled with joy when my father decided to buy me. Mother, of course, had hoped as much, since she had gone to all the trouble of birthing. I’d been told I was very lucky to have been healthy.
As I grew, things were added to my tag.
Jane Doe
Virgin
Age: 9
Long legs, Wide hips, Knows how to hold her tongue, 3% proficiency in the kitchen, Not for sale
It wasn’t long before I began to learn how to be a wife. Mother started in the kitchen, teaching me how to make biscuits. And cookies. I quite liked making cookies more than biscuits, but she told me biscuits were more practical. Her reasoning being that my future husband wouldn’t like it if I made cookies for dinner. I thought, well, maybe I want cookies for dinner.
I only told her this idea once, because she bent down and fiercely grabbed my chin, her eyes gleaming with a look they only held when I said something I shouldn’t have. “Jane, don’t you ever get such silly ideas in your head. Biscuits are practical, so biscuits you will make. Don’t you ever go about making cookies for dinner.” She hissed, her voice low and warning. She would say things like this to me often. Some years later, I proposed that I wear my hair in two braids instead of one, or maybe I could just wear one if I had a ribbon to tie around it.
She cried, “Jane, how do you let such silly ideas fill your head! Don’t you ever go about wearing your hair so wildly, let alone the absurdness of a ribbon!”
That night, after we ate dinner and I cleaned the table, I stomped to the bathroom. Mother and I shared one, to prepare me for my cycle. I fumed, letting water run, as I was supposed to be bathing. Instead, I tore the room apart, scouring every drawer and cabinet for a scrap of ribbon. At the very bottom of the deepest drawer, under spare towels, I excavated a small metal box. A small picture of Mother laid inside, covered in a layer of dust. She was younger and had a pretty smile stretched across her face. I tried not to laugh as I saw her hair, a big mess of curls, wild and untameable. I didn’t have a word to express how she looked when I found it. As I grew older and thought about it more, I thought she looked free.
I turned the picture over, only because I had seen her write dates on the back of pictures we had. It read:
They might as well try to sell you to another wife because even with a price that low, no husband wants to buy you. xox – Eve Johnson
How horrible! To even say that a wife’s price is low is utterly humiliating, but to be sold to another wife is unheard of. I hadn’t even noticed how short my mother’s tag was in the photograph. While I had known her, the tag on her ear was so long, she often wrapped it around her neck like a scarf. I crinkled my nose in disgust and shoved it back into the box, wishing to never see it again. That night, my tag grew. It read:
Jane Doe
Virgin
Cycle: Not menstruating
Age: 12
Does not let ideas fill her head, Long legs, Wide hips, Developing above average breasts, Speaks when spoken to, 14% proficiency in the kitchen, Thorough cleaner, Not for sale
When I was 15, I caught my first glimpse of a husband. He looked around my age, maybe a year or so older than me. It seemed he was walking home from school, seeing as he carried a bag over his shoulder. He also wore a tie, like my father did. He must have had a feeling that he was being watched, because he turned straight to me, his eyes meeting mine from the sliver of curtain I had peeled back. He smiled, eager to see me. I looked around to make sure no one was watching, then gave him a wave. He started to laugh.
I felt an awful pit in my stomach, disgusted at myself. What was so funny about me that caused him to laugh? I hastily pulled the curtain closed. I felt sick, like I might come down with fever soon and worry filled my head. I must hope that my price is too much for him, for surely I would die of embarrassment if he laughed at me again.
The most important day of my life had come at age 16. My father held my hand, ushering me into his car. I had worn my best dress, white laces and only necessary frills that accentuated my best features. We drove to the center of town, where I stood on a tall platform. Eligible husbands stood below, admiring my beauty as my tag was read to them by my father. It read:
Jane Doe
Virgin
Cycle: Ovulating
Age: 16
Does what she is told, Does not let ideas fill her head, Does not argue, Long legs, Wide hips, Above average breasts, Speaks when spoken to, 82% proficiency in the kitchen, Thorough cleaner, Regular menstrual cycle, No health issues, Passed tests and shows promise of easy births, Shows promise of motherly instincts, Does laundry, Can tie a tie
Price: One half of yearly earnings to the father of the wife until a child is conceived
It didn’t take long, as I suspected. That night, I was moving my small few boxes of belongings into David’s house. He was respectable enough, and from my understanding, was moderately wealthy. He was not much older than me, about 23. I had thought, how lucky am I! Father is nearly 13 years older than Mother. When we left my father’s house, he made a comment, saying how much he liked my dress. I told him I liked it too. I tried to ask what he thought of my hair, a braid that cascaded down my back, but he wouldn’t say. I didn’t tell him how I despised it and he never told me he liked anything again.
The night went as planned. I sorted my things, made a dinner of steak and potatoes, cleaned and he took me to bed. It was painful, at first. He told me it was supposed to feel like that, supposed to feel good. When I asked if he would slow down he told me to be quiet, and I did as I was told. My tag changed that night. It read:
Wife of David Smith, Annie Smith
Cycle: Ovulating
Age: 16
Does what she is told, Does not let ideas fill her head, Does not argue, Long legs, Wide hips, Above average breasts, Speaks when spoken to, 82% proficiency in the kitchen, Thorough cleaner, Regular cycle, No health issues, Passed tests and shows promise of easy births, Shows promise of motherly instincts, Does laundry, Can tie a tie
Not for sale
The first joy I remember feeling was the month my cycle skipped. Tears strung down my face like pearls as David and I danced in the kitchen. Overjoyed that he could stop paying his salary to my father, David brought home for me a small white ribbon. I had never received such a gift. In small talks over dinners, I had told him the foolish story of how I had once wanted to tie my hair with one. The next day, as he was working, I tried it.
I stood in front of the mirror, taking long, deep breaths as I carefully wove my hair as I do everyday. My stomach churned as I reached the end, my fingers grasping the small piece of fabric. It seemed so simple, to tie a bow. I shoved the ribbon in my mouth and swallowed it. Whether or not he ever noticed that I did not wear the ribbon was not voiced.
I often talked to the child as my belly grew, about anything I could think to say. While David worked, I wove stories of talking rabbits with large smiles and small creatures who lived in flowers. While he was home, I lectured of the importance of a clean home and good food. I had a feeling it would be a girl.
The third time I traveled in a car was when a child threatened to rip my swollen belly apart. David drove, his hand grasping mine while I heaved, my back straining against the itch of the upholstery. Black spots and swirling lines encroached my vision as the precious child ripped me open from the inside. White coats and a rigid table were all I knew for many hours, maybe days. I knew when the pain ended, but the lack of a cry warned me it was not soon over. I think I screamed, I must have. No heartbeat, they told me. Nothing. My tag changed that day. It read:
Jane Doe
Age: 17
Nothing
Price: Pity
I moved my things out of David’s home. I returned to the house of my father, where he drove me to the center of town everyday. I needed to be sold to a husband, again. I wore the same dress as the first time. Over time, it became a grimy yellow, a scratchy fabric that rubbed my skin raw. Husbands would occasionally approach me, drawn in by the longing in my eyes. My tag quickly turned them away. My father stopped driving me back and forth, installing a rope around my legs to keep me on the platform. It eroded my ankles, the coarse fibers becoming red the longer I stayed.
Entranced by the deep bags under my eyes and my skeleton showing through translucent skin, husbands would gather around my platform, their jaws tightening at my display. I often could not tell the difference in their arousal and their disgust. I would notice the small things about them, the ones who came back day after day. A crooked tie. A thin belly. Mud soaked hems on trousers. I could have fixed them, if they let me. But they saw me. They knew all they needed to. I was horrible, a horrible creature.
What a horrible thing I’ve done. I pluck the hair out of my head, one by one with a satisfying snap when it releases from my scalp in a delicious squelch. Gouges in the wood grow deeper as my nails lengthen, for I must keep them sharp and sweet, to the point. A horrible creature I would become. I let the red rope fall off my bones and tie it up in a nice bow.
I find myself in front of David’s door. I know he has not bought a new wife, as I can smell no perfume, no sickly sweet to smother his hatred in. It’s dark outside, but light squeezes through gaps in the curtains, through the cracked door. I let myself in, my eyes swirling through the halls, my skeletal feet following the oozing red trail. I feel a deep hunger in my stomach and slick spit sweeps my mouth as I silently climb the stairs. I leave footprints that will stain the carpet.
I stand in the door of our bedroom and watch with a smile that lifts what is left of my rosy cheeks. He doesn’t acknowledge me, even as I stand in front of him. His face feels damp as I run my claw down his nose. He won’t admit what he has done. I will make him see.
Relief sweeps through every muscle as I gain clarity. I dip my hands in the red soup, the gentle warmth caressing my tired bones. How sweet it feels against the cracks in my brittle skin. It goes down like sugar, each guzzle as invigorating as the last, each taste a fire simmering under my tongue and it burns my teeth.
I feel whole again, fat and happy. Fed. I whisper his name as I stand from unrecognizable carnage discarded in a bathtub, I long to see my face, to rip the tag off. To become nothing. As I meet my eyes in the mirror to check what it reads, David’s face stares back at me. My chest tightens as I look to the bathtub, my old face, my Jane, frozen in time with a white ribbon at the end of her braid. My tag reads:
Not for sale
Price: Compliance