Page 97 of Peak Cruelty

The pastel woman returns to supervise.She watches me comb my hair.Watches me zip the skirt.She smiles when I glance at the mirror.

“You’re remembering who you are,” she says.

I nod.“I look better.”

“You look safe.”

That’s what they want.Not healthy.Not sane.Just *safe enough to let out for a few hours without incident*.

In the evening, I’m led back to my room.She doesn’t lock the door, but the click still echoes.I know there are cameras.I know which vent it’s hidden behind.I know which patch of floor the rotation doesn’t quite catch.

I wait for nightfall.

Then I kneel.

I dig out the broken clasp I hid two days ago—tucked into the robe’s inner seam, where the stitching is just loose enough.I crouch low near the dresser.

The baseboard splinters.The tip slips in fast.Slower would be safer, but tonight I can’t afford safe.

The first letter is shallow.The second draws blood.I press harder.

R.

U.

N.

The word shakes in my hands.Jagged.Uneven.Ugly.But honest.

I run my thumb over the grooves.They sting.It helps me focus.

Behind me, the hallway creaks.

I freeze.

Footsteps.Not soft this time.Not staff.

Robert.

I slide the clasp back into the seam.Smooth the carpet.Move to the bed.

I make it under the blanket just as the door opens.

He steps inside.Calm.In control.One hand in his pocket like he’s about to tell a bedtime story.

His eyes sweep the room.

“You’re awake,” he says.

I don’t answer right away.My breath’s still too loud.

“I thought I heard something.”He walks toward the dresser.Casual.Measured.

I sit up slowly, like I’ve just stirred.“Bad dream.”

“Hmm.”He doesn’t look at me.Just studies the wall.The vent.The floor.

I wonder if I left something out of place.

---