Harlow and Her Mate

Viviane’s POV

“Cry, Mermaid!” a sharp lash slices into my back, forcing a yelp from my lips.

Screams and sobs surround me on all sides, children crying out for someone, anyone to save them. Their small voices crack and break, a cacophony of squeals and squawks echoing around the vaulted chamber. I wish they would stop. No one is ever going to rescue us, and their constant begging only eggs on the Pearl Reapers.

The lashes fall harder, the shrieks grow louder, and pearls fall like rain into the water around us.

“That’s it, harder!” The head Reaper praises his men. “Give them more!”

We give nicknames to all the Reapers. We know little about them, other than that they belong to the Bloodstone pack. We’ve never seen them in their wolf forms, so we name them based on their human appearances.

We call the head reaper Cyclops – christened thus for the jagged scar running through his left eye socket; his sight solely dependent on his right eye. Unfortunately his aim is no less precise for the disability.

His whip cracks through the air, carving crimson fissures into my back one after the other. Tears stream down my cheeks and I howl with pain. As they drip from my face my tears transform into lustrous white orbs, so solid they splash into the murky red water.

I know water is supposed to be clear and blue, but nothing here is as it should be. Each morning the wolves pump fresh saltwater into our tank, giving us a few moments of blissful peace in the element for which we were born. Within an hour, so much blood and bodily fluid has leaked into the pool that it becomes unrecognizable; dirty and diluted.

My tail rests against the hard white tiles lining the tank floor. The chilly pool is very shallow, preventing even the youngest children from submerging far enough to escape the Reapers.

My friend Isla bobs toward me, wrapping me in a hug as we watch the little ones around us wail pitifully. It wasn’t so long ago that Isla and I were in their position, but as the last generation dwindled away beneath the surgeon’s blades, we slowly took their places. Soon we too will leave, either for land or the grave.

“It can’t be much longer, Viviane.” Isla whispers. “You turned thirteen last week.”

“I know.” I don’t need reminding. Mermaids are only allowed to live in the aquatic farms until they are old enough to undergo The Cut, at which point they are taken from the blood sea – never to be seen again.

Many don’t survive the operation; the blood loss alone is lethal. The recovery is worse. After the doctors complete their Frankensteinish reconfiguration of precious bone and muscle, eviscerating our tails and replacing them with legs, we will be taken from the only place we’ve ever known.

Survivors of The Cut are transferred to the land farms. They must learn to survive in a new body, never forgetting the feel of their tail, never feeling whole without the water.

“Are you afraid?” Isla asks softly. She is a few months younger than I, and her heart has always been more tender than my own. I want to comfort her, to lie and pretend to be brave, but honesty is sacrosanct here. The only thing any of us have is each other; that bond cannot be betrayed.

“Of course I am.” I admit, another tear escaping.

Reapers in training, young wolves aspiring to join the ranks of slave drivers, drag fine seives through the water around us, collecting the pearls stolen from our bodies. The tears are harder to produce the longer we stay in captivity; many young mermaids cry themselves blind or lose the ability to heal their wounds after so many years of constant violence.

“Maybe you’ll survive.” Isla offers hopefully. “Maybe we both will. We can go to the land farms together, find our families.”

I smile weakly and nod, tucking my head down as the strikes continue to fall. The idea is soothing, but we all know it will never come to pass.

There is but one law in our world: beauty from pain.

We are born in pain. We live in pain. And we die in pain.

That is the only guarantee we have in this wretched world.