Page 67 of Peak Cruelty

I wasn’t sick.But the thermometer she used said 103.

She dragged me to the bathroom.Drew the bath hot enough to fog the mirrors while I stood barefoot on tile.Steam curled like fingers around the curtain rod.

She added something sharp to the water—vinegar maybe, or bleach.

“Don’t cry,” she said.“The heat will fix it.The fever will burn off.It has to.”

I told her it was too hot.She didn’t answer.She just lifted me in—clothes and all.

I screamed when my toes hit the water.

She said that meant it was working.

When I tried to get out, she pushed me back in, didn’t let go.She held me there.Let the water reach my chest.

“If I don’t keep you clean, they’ll take you from me,” she whispered, rocking on the edge of the tub, knuckles white.“You’ll sweat it out.You have to sweat it out or they’ll come for us.”

When I finally screamed, she sobbed harder.“Why are you doing this to me?”

She held me there, hands pressing down on my shoulders, until my skin started to blister.

“Look what you made me do,” she said.“I don’t know why you’re always getting sick.”

She took me out and rubbed me with lavender oil as if that would fix it.Wrapped me in a towel, laid me on the floor, and whispered instructions into my ear like bedtime stories.

“You spilled the kettle,” she told me.“Say it.You spilled the kettle.”

I didn’t say it.Not at first.

She held my face, said the fever was getting to me.Maybe I needed to get back in the water.

“I spilled the kettle.”

“Louder.”

“I spilled the kettle.”

“Good boy.”

A notification pings.

Sharp.Hollow.Too modern to belong in that bathroom.

It cuts across the memory like a scalpel.

Just like that, I’m back.

The laptop’s awake again.

Cursor blinking.

Waiting.

I don’t touch it.

Just sit there, hand on the mouse, not moving.The bleach smell’s back.Heated by memory, maybe.Or just the way the air thickens as morning bleeds into afternoon.

I open a new tab.

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