{"id":2780,"date":"2025-05-18T12:17:33","date_gmt":"2025-05-18T19:17:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.evardsson.com\/blog\/?p=2780"},"modified":"2025-05-18T12:17:33","modified_gmt":"2025-05-18T19:17:33","slug":"no-middle","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.evardsson.com\/blog\/2025\/05\/18\/no-middle\/","title":{"rendered":"No Middle"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

prompt: Write about a character who becomes the villain in another character\u2019s story.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

available at Reedsy<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

People like Yulia and me, we\u2019re below justice; people like Mercy Botha, they\u2019re above it. There is no middle, there is no justice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Yulia was arrested, it was \u201cmistaken identity.\u201d Before anyone else was even aware she\u2019d been arrested, she was transferred to the prison factory due to a \u201cpaperwork error.\u201d An \u201cindustrial accident\u201d left her dead on the second day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I found her body in the morgue at the Special Work Prison, six-hundred kilometers away from the prison factory where they said she\u2019d died. The SWP was, in all but name, a brothel for the rich and powerful. Young men and women were sold by the hour for the perverted delights of the elite. The haves taking even more from the have-nots.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d been lucky enough to find and retrieve her body \u2014 by claiming I was her mother \u2014 before she was cremated. It was obvious enough to me, but the forensic pathologist confirmed that her death was not<\/em> from an industrial accident or indeed even accidental. Twelve rounds from a guard\u2019s pistol at short range is far from accidental. Not that any kind of investigation would be done, and no justice beyond firing the guard for \u201cunauthorized discharge of a firearm\u201d and sending him back to the city.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I said, we\u2019re below justice, as is the guard, now. While he wore the uniform, he enjoyed the benefits, but those at the top will sacrifice as many of us as needed to keep the masses placated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m done being placated. I believed the guard when he looked at me with his haunted eyes. He told me how the warden made him shoot her in front of the other new inmates as an example of what happens when you say no.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I believed him when he told me who was involved, and how their enterprise<\/em> works. I believed him, but I didn\u2019t answer his pleas for forgiveness. I looked down at where he knelt in front of me, his eyes filled with tears. \u201cYou could have, should<\/em> have, said no,\u201d I said, \u201clike she did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His eyes grew wide as I drew the blade I\u2019d hidden in my palm across his throat. The guttural gurgling he made was his last sound, and how I will forever remember him. I would\u2019ve preferred to shoot him twelve times, but guns are not allowed to city residents.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he was found a day later, in the sweltering June heat, he was logged as the 417th murder victim in the city for the year. I followed the public records for a couple weeks until I was certain no one was coming forward to claim him. Like most of the murders in this city, his would be ignored, to be marked \u201cclosed\/unsolved\u201d after some arbitrary number of days or weeks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The rich and those of us they found \u201cuseful\u201d \u2014 low-office politicians, faith leaders, entertainers, even the military \u2014 didn\u2019t come to the city unless they had to. Police were another of the lower class that the elites found useful, but they still had to live with us in the muck and filth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That utility, though, has limits. When a useful poor becomes the slightest liability, they\u2019re cut off, returned to the cesspool as waste. Two officers were killed on the job, their throats slit while responding to a break-in call. The initial response was outrage from the elites and a city-wide manhunt. When it came out they were working a scam to arrest young people who \u201cfit the description\u201d of a real target, and selling them to the SWP with faked paperwork, the response was to mark the case as closed\/unsolved and shut up about the whole thing, especially<\/em> SWP involvement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There may have been others in the precinct involved, but I had no evidence, so they escaped my justice. That left one person I had proof of involvement from \u2014 the warden \u2014 and one that was complicit in all the abuses of the SWP. Mercy Botha, the owner of the SWP and the prison factories, would pay for her complicity in Yulia\u2019s death.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They\u2019re both part of the haves, and as such are, as I mentioned earlier, above justice. At least, that\u2019s what they think. When justice is personal, though, there is no above or below.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The warden is an odd one. Like me, he was born in the city and made himself \u201cuseful\u201d in the military. Unlike me, he wasn\u2019t kicked out for punching a senior officer. I doubt very many senior officers were trying to grope him. We were warned in boot camp that as women, we should expect that sort of thing and \u201cgrow a thick skin.\u201d That lesson didn\u2019t sit well with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After his military retirement, he contracted as security to the rich and famous until he had enough money to buy his way into society. He was on the bottom of the ladder, for sure, but he\u2019d \u201cmade it\u201d as one of the elite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His residence was just outside the grounds of the SWP, and rumor had it he had a couple of favorite inmates he frequented on his days off, along with some very specific kinks. The hard part would be passing myself off as one the \u201clower-class upper-class.\u201d Not just useful, but someone who, like the warden, had bought my way into society.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The military taught me how to blend into the shadows, how to disappear, and how to kill. Yulia\u2019s murder gave me a reason to use that training. Similarly, living in the city meant I knew a lot of people with specific criminal skills, but this was the first time I\u2019d sought to hire one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I told the identity broker what I needed, and he called me three days later. He had the perfect ID for me, along with a no-limit credit card that would work for thirty days, but the price would be high.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I made him show me the goods before I\u2019d agree to his terms. The ID was perfect, as was the credit card. I could play the part of the vapid divorcee of a hedge fund manager, living on a fat settlement and alimony.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He handed me a print-out of a photo. \u201cThis one. She comes back to work for me today or kill her. That\u2019s the price.\u201d He tried to look intimidating as he said, \u201cI have to make an example of her, otherwise I\u2019ll look weak.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those three words echoed in my head, \u201cMake an example.\u201d I smiled at his failed attempt to seem dangerous to me. \u201cYou look weak because you are<\/em> weak, just like the warden.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I slashed the blade across his throat before he could react. I snatched the ID and the credit card to protect them from blood spatter. As he choked on his own blood, I told him, \u201cYou should\u2019ve let her go. You made the offer, I made the choice, your life or hers. I don\u2019t know her, but she\u2019s obviously stronger than you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took my phone out of the faraday bag when I got home, and it started chiming immediately. Missed calls from a number I didn\u2019t recognize. I called back and was met with an instant tirade.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know who you are, but I\u2019m going to find out, and when I do, you\u2019ll be the newest attraction at Special Work. Jarvis said you\u2019re too old for regular use, but we\u2019ll sell you cheap as a pain pig. No safe words, no limits.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It seemed I had gotten under someone\u2019s skin. \u201cMercy Botha, I presume?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood. You know who I am, so you know what I can do to you. You\u2019ve had your payback for your little bitch. If you know what\u2019s good for you, you\u2019ll leave it there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMs. Botha,\u201d I put as much honey into my voice as possible, \u201cyou really don\u2019t know when to stop, do you? All your life, everything has been handed to you on a silver platter. Ask the warden what it\u2019s like in the city. Maybe then, you would understand that threats don\u2019t work on all of us, especially me. Be seeing you soon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I disconnected and dropped the phone on the counter. My location was no-doubt known to Mercy Botha now. The good thing about industry disappearing from the city six decades ago, along with the remnants of the middle class, is that places like this are everywhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anyone can take over an old structure, as long as their tetanus shots are current, and they aren\u2019t afraid of a little work. In my case, this former fertilizer mill worked out great. I even found some old chemicals in the sub-basement, once I cut the freight elevator loose and rappelled down the shaft.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I flipped the switch beside the door and walked away from my former home, taking only what city coin I had left and my new ID and credit card. I was probably two kilometers away when it blew; the sound of it echoed between the buildings. The fire was visible in a matter of minutes. There would be no response from the fire department, as it was outside the registered \u201chabitation zone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I spent the following day working my way out of the city. First, I bought a new outfit with city coin and tossed my old clothes. As I neared the outer edges of the city, I stopped in a shopping center, buying somewhat better clothes with the credit card and changing to those.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Once I\u2019d made my way outside the city proper, I went to the All Seasons Hotel and booked a room under my new name, \u201cMinnie Tilly.\u201d I had the concierge buy me a new phone and appropriate outfits after my \u201cdisastrous sight-seeing trip in the city.\u201d Minnie Tilly is far from brilliant, and I wanted to make sure everyone knew that, and that she was kinky. The only outfit I specified in precise detail was a black leather strap harness, knee-high stiletto boots, a leather masquerade mask, and an eight-fall flogger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I made the concierge stay in the room as I tried on the outfits and asked about sex clubs. I knew from the guard that this hotel is one of those that sends clients to the SWP. When he mentioned a \u201cvery exclusive club up north,\u201d I knew I was in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some cajoling, plus a few thousand on tips, landed me an invitation to the SWP on a night when the warden would likely be there to play. Continuing with the airhead nouveau-riche act, I had the concierge charter a hover-flyer for me to get me there and back. I could\u2019ve rented a self-driving luxury car for a quarter of the price, but I was playing the game.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Flying in, the multiple layers of security in widening circles are stark reminders of the nature of the place. Just before we landed, I squealed, \u201cThis is going to be so fun! And I\u2019ve never felt safer with all the security!\u201d I still put on my best idiot performance until I stepped out of the flyer and put on the leather mask. The first thing I saw inside the flyer were the \u201chidden\u201d cameras.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The flyer gone, the mask covering the top half of my face, and the overcoat I\u2019d been covered in dropped on the ground, I marched to the guard at the gate, flogger in hand. \u201cRaincoats optional,\u201d I said, that being the daily code word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He led me through the guard shack to a tunnel that led to \u201cthe club\u201d and turned to go. I stopped him by clearing my throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs my Jarvis pig down here tonight?\u201d I asked. \u201cI was hoping to give him an early birthday present for being such a little piggy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The guard swallowed hard. \u201cI, uh\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s okay, dear. I cleared it with Mistress Botha.\u201d I showed the guard the number I\u2019d saved on my phone. I hoped he\u2019d recognize it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s in room B-114. But he\u2019s with an inmate.\u201d He gestured behind himself with a thumb. \u201cI\u2019ve, uh, gotta get back to my post.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou do that, dear. Thank you for being such a good boy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He turned and ran back to the guard shack. I don\u2019t know what he thought I might do to him, but it was better he was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The room wasn\u2019t locked. None of them were. Some were wide open, the elite proud of their ability to use and abuse the inmates. He didn\u2019t hear me enter, but I slammed the door shut so he\u2019d know I was there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The young woman cuffed to the vaulting horse couldn\u2019t have been more than eighteen, and probably less. Her tear-stained face and puffy red eyes didn\u2019t paint a picture of someone who was happy in her position.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJarvis-pig,\u201d I said, \u201cMistress Botha said you\u2019ve been a bad boy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho are you?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I struck him across the back with the flogger. \u201cI am in charge, and the first and last words out of your mouth will be \u2018Mistress.\u2019 Do you understand me, piggy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMistress, yes mistress.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I smiled internally at how quick he was to fall into the role. I took the handcuff keys from his trousers hanging near the door and released the poor girl. \u201cYou probably don\u2019t want to see this,\u201d I whispered to her, \u201cso I suggest you run to somewhere safe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She pulled on her prison uniform, watching me cuff the warden to the vaulting horse. I stuffed a gag in his mouth, his expression one of unbridled lust and excitement. It changed to fear the moment I raised my mask. He struggled against the cuffs, tried to yell through the gag, but it was no use.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His previous victim asked, \u201cAre you going to kill him?\u201d To my surprise, when I answered in the affirmative, she kicked him \u2014 hard \u2014 in the balls before she left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It takes a long time, and a lot of energy, to beat someone to death with a leather flogger. I would guess I was about halfway there when I took a break to look through his clothes. He had a pistol in there. A twenty-four shot, nine-millimeter with a suppressor. Not a standard guard\u2019s pistol, more like something a gangster would want.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was tired and shot him in the head. When it was nowhere near as loud as I expected, I walked out of the room to see the girl still standing there. She held out her hand, and I gave her the pistol, put my mask back on and left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know how long she waited, but she killed twenty and wounded three \u2014 none of which were inmates \u2014 before the guards shot her dead. The news cycle was all about the massacre that had happened at a \u201ccharity fundraiser being held at the SWP.\u201d I turned the viewscreen off when Ms. Botha began ranting about \u201cMinnie Tilly, the killer Mistress\u201d and vowing to release huge grants to police everywhere to find her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They might, if I don\u2019t find Mercy Botha first.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

prompt: Write about a character who becomes the villain in another character\u2019s story. available at Reedsy People like Yulia and me, we\u2019re below justice; people like Mercy Botha, they\u2019re above it. There is no middle, …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[208],"tags":[233,210,228,209],"class_list":["post-2780","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-trunk-stories","tag-dystopian","tag-fiction","tag-science-fiction","tag-short-story"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pxT7i-IQ","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.evardsson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2780","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.evardsson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.evardsson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.evardsson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.evardsson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2780"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.evardsson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2780\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2781,"href":"https:\/\/www.evardsson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2780\/revisions\/2781"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.evardsson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2780"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.evardsson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2780"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.evardsson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2780"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}