Page 84 of Peak Cruelty

You don’t scream unless it buys you something.

You don’t cry unless there’s someone to see.

You don’t break.Not all the way.Not where it shows.

Eventually, the drugs wear off.The door opens.

It’s Robert again.

He offers me water as though it’s a gift.I don’t drink it.

“We’ll get you cleaned up,” he says.“You’ll feel better once you look better.”

I nod again.Just once.

And he smiles.Pleased.Like I’m back where I should be.

But I’m not.

Because somethingisgone.

Not fear.Not pain.

Whatever it was that made me soft.

That part’s over.

43

Vance

The first thing I register is lemon oil.

The next is fresh-cut grass.The faint sound of kids playing in the distance.The air smells warm, like home, like lawn clippings and someone cooking.

The windows are cracked, letting in the distant sound of lawnmowers, the soft scrape of sneakers on pavement.I blink once.Then again.I have no idea where I am.

The ceiling fan is spinning overhead, slow and unbothered.I’m on a couch, shirt off, bandaged poorly.My ribs wrapped tight with gauze that smells like antiseptic and thrift.

There’s humming.Female.Close.I try to move and regret it immediately.

“You’re awake,” she says.Not surprised.Not concerned.Just stating it like the weather.

She walks into view with a metal bowl and a rag.She’s older.Mid-sixties, maybe.Strong arms.Gloves.A dark smear across the front of her shirt as though she’s been scrubbing something long past saving.

“This isn’t a hospital,” I manage.

“No,” she says.“And thank God for that.”

She kneels beside me.Peels the rag off my forehead.It’s sticky with blood and something else.I flinch.

“Good,” she says.“Pain means you’re not dead.”

I try to sit up.She plants a hand on my shoulder and presses down.Not hard.Just enough to remind me I’m a guest.

“You got a name?”she asks.

“Vance.”

---