Page 88 of Peak Cruelty

I’d cry if I could.I’m too exhausted for even that.

It’s not because I’m sad.Or scared.I’ve been here before.It’s because it smells like the version of me that used to believe in fresh laundry and people who meant what they said.There’s a name for that.It’s Proustian memory—when a scent wraps around you and drags something long buried into the light.

They guide me back to the mat.No words.Just a nod.I sit.

They feed me from a spoon.Small, warm bites.I don’t ask what it is.Tastes like oatmeal and protein powder.Baby food, really.

I swallow.I keep my hands in my lap.

After the last bite, the woman dabs my mouth with a cloth and whispers, “Good girl.”

It makes my stomach turn.

But I don’t show it.

Because this isn’t a new script.I’ve seen it before.I’ve read the lines.They want gratitude, not questions.Smiles, nothing else.

The other woman sets a glass of water on the floor beside me.

Then she opens the door.Before she leaves, she touches my head.Not hair.Head.Like I’m a dog.

Then they’re gone.

The lights come on a few hours later.Or maybe minutes.Time has sharp edges again.

There’s a cot now.White blanket.Folded corners.Like a hospital.

There’s a tray with tea on it.Real tea.Ceramic cup.Sugar.A biscuit with a cracked corner.It looks like a reward.

I don’t touch it.

The door opens again.

Robert steps inside, wearing beige slacks and a sweater, as though he’s come from brunch.He’s shaved.Moisturized.Not a hair out of place.

“Look at you,” he says.“Fresh as a daisy.”

I don’t speak.

He glances at the tray.“Try the biscuit.It’s imported.”

I don’t move.

He laughs.“Still stubborn, I see.”

He crosses to the cot, sits beside the tray, and picks up the cup.Takes a slow sip.Closes his eyes like it’s transcendent.Like the sight of me, contained in his house again, means the system works.

“I used to think you’d be too much trouble,” he says.“Too smart.Too sharp.Not like the others.”

He sets the cup down.

“But you were always my favorite.”

He reaches for my hand.I let him.

Not because I want to.

Because I know what happens when you resist.The clock starts over, and sometimes it’s worse.

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