Should we punish those who express dangerous beliefs?

Read "The Bridle" by L. A. Shortliffe

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The Bridle by L. A. Shortliffe

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Saliva pooled on her tongue beneath the rusty depressor. She endured a constant urge to swallow, afraid of choking on her own fluids. The taste of metal and blood are so akin, it is easy to mistake one for the other. This early in the day, blood was rare. The raw corners of her mouth usually healed enough overnight to withstand her mornings under the bit.

She always paused, hand hovering in indecision, before lifting the iron latch and opening the front door. She wrestled with the desire to lock herself in and avoid facing the world. A part of her was surprised she had not yet let hopelessness fold in upon her, allowing herself to wither into a lonely death at home. There must have been some part of her former self, that relentlessly determined part, that would not allow her to surrender.

She emerged on the front step, a reluctant performer stepping out upon a stage. Slightly blinded by the sunlight, she sensed the gaze of an audience falling upon her partially obscured face. The iron scaffolding that held her gag in place formed a triangle around her nose before tracing her head’s central meridian up and over her crown to meet the bit band at the nape of her neck. She nervously fingered the folds of her skirt as she made her way down the stone walk. A familiar sight to her neighbors, she still provided them an opportunity to demonstrate their disgust and moral superiority, which was rarely overlooked. Scornful whispers and glares of disdain were the most common ways they communicated their reproach. Occasionally a more aggressive tact was taken. This morning, she felt a spoiled vegetable sail past her right ear and into the clean linens she had hung out to dry. Her startled jolt was followed by unconcealed snickers from the children and adults alike.

How is it that even the children hate me? It was confusing for her. It had only been a few months since these same children would call out to her when she was returning home, eager to share their day’s adventures with an attentive ear. They had discovered the secrets of the marzipan sweets that lay waiting for them in her basket and flocked to her as crows to scattered crumbs. A few of them had been guided into the light of life in her own hands as their mothers labored. The youngest of these children had seemed as confused as she was by her new role as the neighborhood outcast—innocent inquiries as to why she wore a cage upon her head greeting her in the early days. Perhaps it was fortunate that her inability to speak had saved her from having to explain the cruel retribution that society will enact on those deemed a threat. In some way, their parents must have made it clear to them, for their naïve questions under concerned brows had melted into the modeled revulsion their older counterparts had mastered at a much quicker pace.

Catherine, who resided two homes down, had been a dear friend. They often walked to the market together, discussing the town chatter or what their gardens were producing. She had delivered all three of Catherine’s children and, as her own Isabel was the same age as Catherine’s middle child, the families frequently acted as a single unit—their band of children gallivanting up and down the street. She had shared her thoughts with Catherine quite freely in the past and never sensed disapproval or discomfort. Her public statement had changed things though, even before the Condemning. Catherine started keeping her children inside. When their eyes met on the street, Catherine’s furrowed brow, forced smile, and quick wave of dismissal acted as a blockade conveying discomfort with her presence. The first time their eyes had met through the cage, both had welled up with the unspoken. She thought Catherine might come to her and hold her trembling shoulders, as she so desperately needed, but instead her closest friend turned away and rushed home. Since that day, Catherine had never been so careless as to let their eyes meet again.

She tried not to resent Catherine. She understood that any sign of allegiance with the Condemned could put someone at risk. They could be seen as sympathizers and even if they escaped formal Condemning, the community-led ostracizing could be almost as cruel. With an intimate view of the consequences of doing otherwise, would I have turned my back on a friend too?

While the walk among neighbors tore at her heart and mind, her shoulders tensed with greater fear as she left her street and strode into the world of strangers. Her muscles charged with wound up waiting, knowing they could be called upon at any moment to react to an unexpected elbow jab or shove to the squalid gutter. At first, she counted herself lucky when it was insults hurled at her face rather than spit, but the insults left deeper marks. The bridle stole from her the chance to respond, to explain herself, or to defend her humanity. Instead, she was left a dumb beast whose thoughts could only echo within her own head, ruminations and questions unfurling through her consciousness.

What is the cause of such hatefulness? She was struck by the rancor that came easily to people with so little knowledge of her. Last week, a shuffling elderly woman, barely strong enough to walk independently, shocked her with a verbal onslaught of vicious obscenities. Stunned, she stumbled and nearly twisted her ankle, much to the amusement of the smirking passersby. She tried to stay grounded in the parts of herself that were invisible to the woman—her curiosity about the world, her constant striving towards growth and knowledge, and her inability to walk away from the suffering of others. She thought of the moments that spoke more to who she was than this one—the glean of tenderness beaming down from her moonlit face upon her nursing infant, the sheer joy she felt when she coaxed a laugh from her toddler, and the tears of loss in her eyes when five-year-old Isabel stretched her arms towards her, grasping at the air between them as she was yanked away. To the choleric old woman, she was not a human with loves, wishes, dreams and grief. She existed as a place for her to unleash her frustrations and discomfort, a scapegoat for all that was despised.

Have I treated others as objects? Have I forgotten their humanity?

Is it human nature to oversimplify what is complex? She understood that people wanted to be able to view the world through a lens of good versus evil—this is less confusing as everything can be divided into two clear, unambiguous categories. She wondered whether they would treat her with such contempt if they had seen other parts of her—parts that perhaps they recognized within themselves. Or would this serve only to inspire greater censure of her as they struggled to differentiate themselves from someone whose fate had taken this turn.