Page 96 of Peak Cruelty

No one tells me how long it’s been.Robert never answers when I ask.But I’ve stopped asking.When I do, he just smiles like the question is beneath me now.Like he already knows I’ve given up on the calendar.

The woman in pastels arrives again.Always the same smile.Always the clipboard.I know her lines before she speaks them.

“Good morning, Marlowe,” she says, like I’m seven and trying shoes on the wrong feet.

I nod.She writes something down.Same as yesterday.Same as the day before that.

“Today’s another low-stimulation day,” she adds.“No screens.No visitors.Just light integration.”

That’s the script.It never changes.I nod again.I’m good at that part.

She sets the tray down on the side table.Smoothie.Almonds.Something green that might’ve started as yogurt.A pill.Always the pill.Always in its own little dish like it earned the right to be served.

“You’ll feel better once you’re nourished,”she says, and her eyes flicker to the door.Like she’s checking for someone.Or waiting to be told she said it right.

I take the pill.I drink the smoothie.I eat just enough of the rest to pass inspection.

She doesn’t leave right away.Just watches me.Head tilted slightly, pen hovering over her clipboard like she’s waiting for a misstep.Eventually, she exhales and leaves.The door sighs closed.

I stay seated.Still holding the glass like it’s part of the act.Across the room, the plant in the corner looks fake today.Too green.Too upright.I stare at it until the silence starts to bend.

No clocks here.No sounds that haven’t been filtered and rehearsed.Just the house pretending to be something it’s not.

By midday, Robert shows up.

He’s wearing another suit—gray this time, thin tie, polished shoes.Nothing ever creases.Nothing ever falters.

“My girl,” he says, stepping into the room like he belongs to it.“You’re glowing today.”

I say nothing.That’s part of it, too.Knowing when to speak.Knowing when silence is a better answer.

“I thought we’d take a short walk,” he says.“You’ve earned that, haven’t you?”

The question’s rhetorical.I stand.He doesn’t reach for me.Just waits.I fall in step beside him like it’s my idea.

We walk the stone path behind the house, the one that winds through a garden built to impress people who don’t ask questions.Roses.Lavender.Pale things with no scent.

“This is progress,” he says, pausing beside the fountain.He places a hand lightly against my back.“We built this for you.To remind you what you’re coming back to.”

Coming back.As if I ever had a choice.

“Do you remember what happened?”he asks.

That’s his line.He always waits until we’re outside to say it.Like nature makes the lie easier to swallow.

“I was sick,” I say.

He nods, proud.“And now?”

“I’m getting better.”

“Good.”His smile widens.“You’re earning trust again.And when we trust you—really trust you—then we’ll talk about what’s next.A trial outing, maybe.Brunch.”

Brunch.That’s what they call freedom now.

We walk another lap.He talks about renovations.About guest lists.About which friends will be thrilled to see me again.He’s writing my future like I won’t be there for it.

After lunch—grilled fish, steamed vegetables, no salt—I’m sent to change.A cream blouse waits on the bed.A skirt beside it.Nude heels by the mirror.No tags.Nothing sharp.Everything softened for safety.

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