Rielly 1

Victoria Rielly
Freshman Inquiry
MacCormack
May 7th 2015
Bestow (Page 277-280)
A collective sigh rises from the crowd while Aunt Lydia's pale and wrinkled palm curls over the
microphone. The gesture effectively stifling the faint choking and gurgling coming from the bodies
behind her. My eyes rest on her, and not the white sacks or tightly pulled ropes. It's a scene I know all
too well, there's no sense in continuing to watch now that the initial ceremony has taken place. I steal a
glance at Offred, who inspects the divider rope with great care, stares at the the grass, looks at anything
but the three swinging bodies. I can't blame her.
Today's Salvaging is now concluded. the sharp voice of Aunt Lydia encourages me to turn my
eyes back to the stage. But.. there's a sly smile on her lips, reminding me of birthday parties of the
past. Always there was one friend, usually a best friend, who simply couldn't wait for me to open their
present. The present was always something grand, unexpected, maybe not something I needed, but
something I wanted. A ripple runs across the crowd, and I remember where and when I am. This is no
birthday party, and the twinkle in Aunt Lydia's eye scares rather than excites me.
But you may stand up and form a circle. she continues, eyes sweeping the crowd. This is
meant for Handmaids only, there's no need to speak the directions aloud, somehow we feel it. Orderly,
now. she chides, voice even and measured. The women in red collect themselves, lift skirts, shuffle
around, we form a circle. I recognize faces beneath the white wings that cover our heads. Others who
I've managed to whisper Mayday to. We try not to make eye contact as a few of them turn to the
outskirts of the circle, trying not to gain attention. I do the opposite and push my way forwards.
Sometimes the most inconspicuous place is the one up front, where I am most visible. We call it

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hiding in plain sight. Offred takes a step to follow me, perhaps out of curiosity of what Aunt Lydia has
planned, or maybe just the familiarity we share in our weekly shopping trips. We know each other, and
that can be some small form of comfort in uncertainty such as this.
The crowd gets thicker, a sea of red and white. Offred starts to hesitate, hang back as if she's
unsure of herself. I wrap a hand into the red fabric of her sleeves and pull gently, toting her along. We
end up in the second row. While Wives and daughters watch in silence, Aunt Lydia speaks up again.
You know the rules for a Particicution, So that's what this is. You will wait until I blow the
whistle. After that, what you do is up to you, until I blow the whistle again. Understood?
The crowd murmurs as one to acknowledge what she said. There's another pause. I feel a
terrible dread as the words pick up again, but suddenly I'm not listening anymore. Through the first row
I manage to see who the Guardians drag out and instantly recognize him as one of ours. Aunt Lydia is
still speaking. Something about rape and murder and this man's partner in crime being shot. Only half
of it even registers in my mind, and from what I do hear, none of it is true.
He's a mess, the poor man. His Guardian uniform is torn, hair bedraggled and hanging in
clumps from the moisture. It's a good thing the drugs hinder some comprehension, because I know if he
were aware, he would meet my eyes in a plea for help. In the final moments before Aunt Lydia blows
the whistle, he squints in my direction. It's startling but brief, I don't think anyone noticed in the
commotion, but the thought is frightening regardless. Then there's that horrid whistle and the mass of
red-clothed bodies pushes forward.
Offred hardly moves. Again, I can't blame her. It's not every day you participate in something
like this. I leave her side and shove through the mob, it may seem like I'm overly enthusiastic about the
revenge for the rape victims, or whatever nonsense Aunt Lydia had been describing, but there's only
one thought in my mind. Other Handmaids kick and shove the man to the ground while a few fall to my
shoving and elbowing. I don't care, the fallen ones roll on each other like fish at the market, it's a soft

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landing, no harm done.
I reach the man's side. I'm sorry. There's a split second where our eyes are dangerously close to
meeting. Before that can happen I lift a red-clod foot and bring it down on his head. Once. I'm sorry.
Twice. I'm sorry. Then a third for good measure. The other Handmaids, some I knocked over, are back
on their feet, rushing in to claim a fair share of the carnage. The deed is done, and I betray no emotions
while backing out of the circle and taking my place beside Offred again. She's furious with me, our
heated conversation gets Guardians looking our way and finally I have to whisper why I did what I did,
even though I don't expect her to fully understand.
The mob of Handmaids eventually disperses, I give Offred a nod before we go our separate
ways to our Commander's homes. There's a certain formality to walking in our heavy skirts and winged
heads, but I find myself breaking the customary pace. There's an urgency in getting home today. I'm
being watched, by my allies or enemies, it's hard to tell. The familiar stone path up to my Commander's
house comes into view, and not soon enough. Lifting the skirt enough to climb the worn steps, I shuffle
inside and shut the door a little too loudly.
Ofglen, Jade, our Martha, walks up behind me. From the upstairs window... I saw a van
circle the block. Now they've stopped at the corner.. She takes my hand in hers and rubs a thumb
across my knuckles in an act of comfort. We both know what the van means. The shorter girl blinks
rapidly and moves aside so I can go upstairs. She's still young. There's no chance I'll risk her being
caught as well. The rumble of the van gets louder. Sure enough, jet black, at the end of the walk. It rolls
slowly towards the house, as if sneaking up on prey.
There isn't much time. I'm in a frenzy now, ripping nightclothes with my bare hands and
fashioning a rope. There are no hooks in a Handmaid's room, of course, so I force my way into the
Commander's room with the fabric and loop it around one column of his four-poster bed. How's that for
one more act of defiance.

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Works Cited:
Atwood, Margaret. The Handmaid's Tale. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1986. Print.