Page 45 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

T hey take the light first.

No more lamps casting shadows on the walls. No more soft glow filling the room. Just darkness. Deep, thick, and suffocating, like it’s been building for hours. It wraps around me, cold and familiar, like something earned. For a moment, I think maybe they’re done.

Then they take the sound.

No footsteps. No voices. The air is still, thick with silence.

Even my own breathing fades into the quiet, as if it’s not supposed to be heard.

The room feels stale, as though it’s been sealed off too long, the air heavy with exhaustion and defeat.

It’s like inhaling someone else’s exhale, all used up and lingering.

Next comes time.

There’s no clock. No meals. No routine. Just water through a straw and whatever paste they shove in my mouth, making sure I never have the choice to stop swallowing. I start seeing shapes in the shadows. I blink, and they shift. I speak just to hear something, anything. Then I stop.

Because they don’t want noise.

And I know what happens when you give them what they want. Or you when you don’t.

Either way, they change the game.

The door opens on what could be day three. Might be day twelve. There’s no way to know.

Two people enter. Gloved hands. Quiet shoes. Both female, both strangers. I can smell soap on them, maybe something citrus. They don’t speak.

They bring warmth.

Blankets. Soft socks. A basin of water. They wash me like I’m porcelain. Small, circular motions. Behind the ears. Inside the wrists. Between the toes. Gentle, reverent.

They don’t look me in the eye.

One woman sings. The other combs my hair.

It’s not kind. Not violent. That would be easier. This is tenderness as technique . I lean into the comb before I realize I’ve moved. My body registers contact like it’s been starved. Which it has.

When the brush slows, I lean a fraction closer.

The woman freezes. Just for a second.

Then she slaps me.

Not hard. Just enough.

The kind of slap that says: We noticed that. Don’t do it again.

The combing resumes. Slower now. More distance between strokes.

And I get it.

They’re teaching me.

Pleasure, then pain. Reward, then reminder.

If I want kindness, I have to earn it. If I want contact, I have to be still. Grateful. Moldable.

They dress me in cotton. Loose, white. Soft at the seams. No tags, no zippers, nothing I could use. The shirt smells like sun, like someone hung it outside and let the wind carry the past away.

I’d cry if I could. I’m too exhausted for even that.

It’s not because I’m sad. Or scared. I’ve been here before.

It’s because it smells like the version of me that used to believe in fresh laundry and people who meant what they said.

There’s a name for that. It’s Proustian memory—when a scent wraps around you and drags something long buried into the light.

They guide me back to the mat. No words. Just a nod. I sit.

They feed me from a spoon. Small, warm bites. I don’t ask what it is. Tastes like oatmeal and protein powder. Baby food, really.

I swallow. I keep my hands in my lap.

After the last bite, the woman dabs my mouth with a cloth and whispers, “Good girl.”

It makes my stomach turn.

But I don’t show it.

Because this isn’t a new script. I’ve seen it before. I’ve read the lines. They want gratitude, not questions. Smiles, nothing else.

The other woman sets a glass of water on the floor beside me.

Then she opens the door. Before she leaves, she touches my head. Not hair. Head. Like I’m a dog.

Then they’re gone.

The lights come on a few hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time has sharp edges again.

There’s a cot now. White blanket. Folded corners. Like a hospital.

There’s a tray with tea on it. Real tea. Ceramic cup. Sugar. A biscuit with a cracked corner. It looks like a reward.

I don’t touch it.

The door opens again.

Robert steps inside, wearing beige slacks and a sweater, as though he’s come from brunch. He’s shaved. Moisturized. Not a hair out of place.

“Look at you,” he says. “Fresh as a daisy.”

I don’t speak.

He glances at the tray. “Try the biscuit. It’s imported.”

I don’t move.

He laughs. “Still stubborn, I see.”

He crosses to the cot, sits beside the tray, and picks up the cup. Takes a slow sip. Closes his eyes like it’s transcendent. Like the sight of me, contained in his house again, means the system works.

“I used to think you’d be too much trouble,” he says. “Too smart. Too sharp. Not like the others.”

He sets the cup down.

“But you were always my favorite.”

He reaches for my hand. I let him.

Not because I want to.

Because I know what happens when you resist. The clock starts over, and sometimes it’s worse.

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.