Page 89 of Peak Cruelty

He presses his thumb to my palm.Slides it down to my wrist, as though he’s measuring something invisible.

“Everyone breaks different,” he says.“Some crack fast.Some bend first.Some…peel.”

He smiles.

“You’re a peeler.”

He lifts my hand to his mouth.Kisses the knuckle.

I wait for the nausea to pass.

“Get some rest,” he says.“You’re doing beautifully.”

He leaves.

And I know this part, too.

It’s not over.Not even close.

This is the lull before the next phase.The moment they convince you they’ve stopped hurting you—so you’ll walk closer to the blade.

I lie back on the cot.Pull the blanket up.

The biscuit is still on the tray.

I leave it there.

Because I know what it means to be fed.

And I know what they’re trying to feed me now.

45

Vance

The footsteps are too light to mean anything bad.Not the heavy shuffle I’ve grown used to, but light, quick steps.

The door creaks open just a crack.I turn my head, still half out of it, and see a little girl standing in the frame.She’s about eight, maybe nine—thin, with wide eyes that look too old for her face.She’s holding a glass of water.

“Hi,” she says, voice quiet, matter-of-fact.“Mom said to bring you this.”

I take the water, my ribs screaming as I sit up.“Thanks.”

She steps in, scrutinizing me like she’s already sizing me up.“You really got the shit kicked out of you.”

I wince but chuckle.“Something like that.”

“You’re not supposed to fight.”She pulls up a chair beside the bed, unbothered, still watching me with those eyes that don’t match her age.“Mom says fighting’s bad.”

“Your mom’s right,” I say, voice scratchy.“But sometimes, it can’t be helped.”

She cocks her head, processing.“You must’ve really made them mad,” she says, voice going a little quieter, a little sharper.“Were they big?”

I smirk.“Yeah.They were pretty big.”

She nods as if that explanation is enough.“Bullies suck.But it’s okay,” she says brightly, almost cheerfully, “’cause you’re not dead.

“I'm not that lucky,” I say, forcing a grin.

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