Page 20 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

S he’s exactly where I left her—legs still strapped, back upright, eyes open this time. Like she thought staring down the sunlight might get her somewhere.

It didn’t.

I set the tray on the table. No plate. No silverware. Just a single, low bowl.

She doesn’t look at it. She watches me. Waiting for context. Permission. A threat.

There isn’t one.

Inside the bowl: sea urchin, caviar, something pale and slick, something that cost too much and now means nothing. A curl of raw flesh. Oil pooled like afterbirth. And a single orchid petal—because the restaurant thinks cruelty should be plated with flair.

“Open your mouth,” I say.

She doesn’t.

“Eat.”

Still, nothing. So I walk behind her. She tenses—barely.

I crouch. Unbuckle the strap across her chest. Just that one. The rest stay tight.

Her arms fall forward. Not defiant. Not grateful.

I reach around and take a glistening piece between my fingers. Raise it to her mouth. The smell hits sharp—brine, rot, faint metal. Something meant to remind her that options are a luxury she no longer gets.

She parts her lips—but just slightly. Not an invitation. A question.

I press it past her teeth.

She doesn’t gag.

I wait.

She chews. Swallows.

“Well, at least it’s better than your eggs.”

The look she gives me after says everything: That’s it? That’s your big move?

And for a second, I want to hit her.

I don’t.

Instead, I feed her another. This one colder. Slipperier. Closer to a dare than a meal.

“You want to speak?” I say. “Eat first.”

She raises an eyebrow like I’ve asked her to bark. But she doesn’t resist.

“Swallow it.”

She obeys.

Not like it bothers her.

Like a woman who knows exactly how much dignity she can trade without losing the game.

When the bowl’s nearly empty, I wipe my fingers on a cloth I didn’t offer her. Then I lean in—closer than I’ve ever been.

“I want to tell you a story.”

She offers no reaction, just stares.

“Munchausen by proxy has a signature,” I say. “Your sister’s wasn’t the first I’ve seen.”

I watch her face.

“My mother had it. She was good. The best. Oxygen tanks, needles, seizure drills. A medical chart on the fridge like it was a calendar. I was her miracle.”

I pause—not for effect. Just because some memories still taste like oxygen deprivation.

“She used to inject me with an EpiPen in the middle of the night. Said I was having an allergic reaction. Said it made me easier to love.”

Her expression doesn’t shift. Just cool interest. The kind reserved for other people’s pain.

“She poured bleach on the floor once. Told the neighbors I’d tried to drink it, when in reality she made me. Said it broke her heart. Smiled while they consoled her.”

I expect a response. She gives me nothing.

Not pity. Not horror.

Just silence.

“I grew up eating scraps,” I say. “Not because we were poor. Because my mother liked the way people stared when she said I had ‘appetite issues.’”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

I laugh. Once. Sharp. Unplanned.

She smiles. The way people do before pulling the trigger. Like she’s heard better lies. Lived worse truths.

I reach forward. Grip her jaw. Press my thumb along her throat—not to choke. Just to make her think I might.

“You think this is a joke?”

She shakes her head and tries to pull away from my hand. “No. I think it’s nostalgia.”

That almost undoes me.

I let go. Stand.

“If I were you,” I say, “I wouldn’t ever make the mistake of thinking this is something you’ve seen before.”

She leans back in the chair like it’s a throne.

“Too late.”

I move to the door. Stop.

“You want to tell yourself you’ve seen men like me before.”

My voice is flat when I turn toward her. “Try surviving one.”

She tilts her head, narrows her eyes. “Who’s to say I haven’t?”