Page 43 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

T he first thing I feel is the cold.

Not fear. Not pain. Just cold. Deep, subdermal. Like I’ve been hollowed out and left on ice. Like something essential got scooped out of me and didn’t bother to leave a note.

The second thing I feel is cotton. In my mouth. In my brain. A thick, dense fog where memory should be. Everything’s slow. Muted. I’m not even sure if I’m awake until someone says my name.

Not gently.

“Marlowe.”

A slap comes next. Light. Just enough to make the room tilt. Just enough to make me realize there are men in it. Two, maybe three. A chair beneath me. My wrists tied. Ankles, too.

I don’t ask where I am. I know better than that.

The wallpaper is familiar. So is the carpet. The house smells like lavender and wood polish—exactly like it used to.

The last time I saw this wallpaper, I was wearing pearls and pretending to enjoy foie gras.

I’m home.

The house hasn’t changed. But I have.

“Back where you belong,” someone says. The voice is syrupy. Not sweet. The kind that sticks to your teeth.

I blink, and the shape in front of me sharpens.

Robert.

He crouches, balancing on the balls of his feet like we’re old friends catching up. His smile is easy. Familiar. Wrong.

“You got lost,” he says, as if it’s a joke we’re both in on. “But that’s okay. I found you.”

I don’t respond. Not out of defiance. Just logistics. My jaw doesn’t want to move.

“You look tired,” he says, studying my face. “That life didn’t suit you, huh?”

He brushes a strand of hair from my face. Gentle. That’s the trick. He always starts soft.

“You had me worried,” he says. “People said things. That you ran. That you forgot where home was.”

He sighs, deep and theatrical. “But I knew better. I said, 'Not my Marlowe. Not my girl.' Because you’re loyal. You know what it means to owe.”

His hand shifts. Not the hair this time. My cheek.

“You do know what it means to owe, don’t you?”

The fog lifts just enough for me to nod.

He grins. “Good.”

Then he stands.

“She needs a reminder,” he says to someone behind me. “Nothing that shows. Not yet.”

And then I’m alone.

Except I’m not.

Footsteps circle. The chair creaks under my weight. Under theirs. Hands grip my shoulders. Something sharp presses into my arm.

Warmth floods in. Not comfort. Just chemical. Whatever they gave me last time, this is worse.

Time folds.

When I wake again, the chair is gone. The walls are wrong. I’m on the floor. Face sticky with blood or sweat or both.

Someone steps over me.

“You’re not going to die,” a voice says. “But you are going to wish you had.”

They don’t lie.

Hours pass. Or maybe days. I stop trying to track them.

Pain doesn’t come in waves here. It comes in drills. In wires. In silence.

No one comes unless it’s on purpose. No one speaks unless it’s to shape me.

They want me quiet. Not because they need it. Because it makes them feel bigger. Powerful.

And I give them what they want. Because I know the rules.

You don’t scream unless it buys you something.

You don’t cry unless there’s someone to see.

You don’t break. Not all the way. Not where it shows.

Eventually, the drugs wear off. The door opens.

It’s Robert again.

He offers me water as though it’s a gift. I don’t drink it.

“We’ll get you cleaned up,” he says. “You’ll feel better once you look better.”

I nod again. Just once.

And he smiles. Pleased. Like I’m back where I should be.

But I’m not.

Because something is gone.

Not fear. Not pain.

Whatever it was that made me soft.

That part’s over.