Free Judgment by Denise Hall

highest heeled shoes. Their skirts were the 73
    Judgment
    by Denise Hall
    shortest allowed; bib-like, the gossamer cloth barely covered their buttocks. And when they turned or walked, it didn't even do that much.
    They never did chores, never washed their own laundry or food dishes after meals. A guard was assigned to clean their bathroom and the Personals' common areas. Only Personals were allowed to wear makeup. They played in the garden daily and were the only females allowed in the aviary.
    We all envied them, but no one wanted to be one.
    Personals were the masters' permanent companions, life partners at least as much as a slave could partner to her master. Perhaps favored pet was closer to the truth, and it was for that reason that they received the absolute best of all things. But it also meant they got the harshest treatment. It was rare that a female of lesser importance ever saw a Personal, and for the longest time, I thought them a mountain myth. But on the few occasions when one was spied, the marks upon their bodies were enough to pale and leave shaken even the sturdiest Lesser among us.
    In the Pit, Elite status was what we all aspired to. They were the icons we grew desperate to model ourselves after.
    Their short yellow uniforms, two-inch high heels, sparkling jeweled hair combs, earrings, bracelets and anklets, were the badges of accomplishment that we couldn't wait to achieve.
    Elites got dessert for dinner every night. They got to use bathrooms with hot running water. They were the finished product, and there were very few of them in Judgment at any one time, since most were sold within a month of obtaining this favored and long looked-to status.
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    Judgment
    by Denise Hall
    Midpoints came next and were the most plentiful of Lessers, recognized by their soft pink uniforms and shoes.
    Oh, at long last shoes! The heels were only an inch high, but it was a wonderful thing to be able to put our barefoot days behind us. And it was always amusing to spot a new Midpoint as she tottered unsteadily through the halls, learning to walk gracefully on those spike-point heels.
    They got dessert on the last supper of each week. They got hair ribbons and barrettes, bobby pins, twist ties, scrunchies and bows. What vain and silly creatures, women, that things like this should make a difference. But the allure of just being allowed to put our hair up was very, very powerful.
    Primaries were on the bottom rung of the rank ladder.
    Their uniforms were a dull blue-gray. There was no jewelry, no pretty hair fripperies, and no desserts at meals. They got fed last in the dining hall and had to sit at the worst tables, those right below the masters' dais and under their watchful eyes. They were punished more frequently than any other rank, because most Primaries had yet to be completely cleansed of all reluctance or defiance, and some still clung to stubborn traces of individuality and worth.
    But even lower than Primaries, New-Comers were the dregs of Judgment society. We weren't even worthy of clothes. For that first month, we lived solely within our barracks, not permitted to leave except every morning before breakfast when we were escorted to the bathroom and sprayed down with the hose. Even our daily exercise was taken at the foot of our beds: jumping jacks, push-ups and 75
    Judgment
    by Denise Hall
    sit-ups, and slow stretches that bent our bodies into common punishment positions. By the end of our second week, there wasn't a one of us who couldn't touch her toes with perfectly straightened knees.
    We were fed healthy but tasteless foods: plain oatmeal, half an apple and milk for breakfast; a thick, gritty and gray shake-like substance for lunch, which smelled bad and which I never could drink without first holding my nose; and for dinner, dressingless salad, raw vegetables, and a bland piece of chicken or fish, which was usually ground up into a crumbled, unappetizing lump. At the foot of our beds, we'd sit with dinner