Page 47 of Peak Cruelty
Marlowe
I wake to hushed voices speaking down the hall.
They’ve moved me to one of the guest rooms. White walls. White furniture. Pale oak floors. A plant in the corner I’ve never seen before. Abstract art in non-threatening shapes. Diffused lighting, little chance of seeing the sun.
The robe they’ve put me in is soft. Designer-soft. Monogrammed with nothing. It fits perfectly.
My mouth tastes like syrup and cotton.
I sit up slowly. My head lags behind the rest of me. My body’s working on a delay. There’s music playing softly somewhere—string quartet. Minor key. The kind rich people play when they want to feel artistic.
The door opens.
A woman in pastels steps inside. Flat shoes. Glasses on the bridge of her nose. She smiles the way people smile when they’ve been told to smile.
“Good morning, Marlowe.”
Her voice is syrup, too.
I don’t answer.
She makes a note on the clipboard.
“Today’s a low-stimulation day. No screens. No visitors. Just light integration.”
Integration.
They say it like I’ve moved countries.
She sets a tray on the side table. A pale smoothie. A handful of almonds. Something that looks like yogurt. A single white pill in a tiny dish.
“You’ll feel better once you’re nourished,” she says, already walking out. “And your head is clear.” She gestures at the pill. “That should help.”
The door doesn’t click. It sighs closed. Like everything in this house is meant to soothe . Like the edges have all been sanded down. No corners. No sharp objects. No clocks.
I drink the smoothie. I take the pill. Not because I want to. Because I know the only way out is through.
Ten minutes later, I’m groggy again. But mostly, just numb.
The day unspools in quiet increments.
They let me shower, though there’s no lock on the door.
Not that it would matter either way. I’m not allowed to shut it, not allowed to be left alone.
The mirror is fogged but I catch pieces of myself around the edges: a cheekbone, the curve of my throat, the way my hand trembles when I reach for the shampoo.
There’s a comb, but no brush.
I dry myself with towels that smell like rain, then step back into the robe. I don’t ask questions. I don’t try to leave.
This isn’t a prison. It’s a reset.
They want me grateful.
Later, someone appears. A man this time. Younger. Polished. He hands me a silk dress and says, “Lunch is downstairs.”
I nod. That’s the game.
He doesn’t follow me. He doesn’t have to. I walk the stairs like I’ve always belonged here.
The dining room is glass on three sides. The table is already set. Two plates. A vase of pale roses.
Robert is waiting.
He stands when I enter, like we’re playing house.
“There’s my girl,” he says, all warmth and charm and possession.
He crosses the room. Kisses my cheek. Holds it too long.
“You look radiant,” he says. “So much better.”
I smile. Just the corners of my mouth. Just enough.
“Sit,” he says.
I do.
Lunch is light. Grilled something. Something green. He eats like he has a camera on him. Small bites. Napkin in lap.
He talks. About renovations. About vacations we never took. About how I’ve been “making progress.”
I nod. I don’t answer. Not until he says:
“Do you remember what happened?”
I pause. Set my fork down.
He leans forward, gaze steady. “You had a break. A full episode. You got confused. Ran off. It wasn’t your fault.”
I nod again. “I was sick.”
His smile widens. “That’s right.”
“I imagined it.”
“Yes.” The smile fades. “All of it.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. His grip is cool. Steady. Familiar in the worst way. “But you’re better now.”
“Yes.”
He squeezes once. “That’s my girl.”
He watches me a beat too long. Then:
“Do you remember how we met?”
I don’t answer.
He continues anyway.
“You were twenty-one. Maybe twenty-two. I never did get the real answer.” His smile sharpens, tender as a blade. “You were at the blackjack table in that piss-yellow casino in Reno. Owing money to the wrong men.”
He gives a small laugh, like it’s romantic.
“Three thousand dollars,” he says. “That’s all it took. Three grand, and they would’ve broken your hand or worse.”
He slices into his salmon with quiet precision.
“You looked so scared. Like no one had ever bet on you before. You remember what you said to me?”
He doesn’t wait. “You said, ‘If you help me, I’ll do anything.’”
He raises his eyebrows at the memory.
“Anything. And you meant it.”
He gestures broadly. “Look at us now.”
I look at my plate.
Three thousand dollars. That’s all it took to own me.
After lunch, I’m given a journal. A fresh pen. A task: Write down three things you’re grateful for today.
I write:
1. A shower.
2. Lunch with Robert.
3. I’m getting better.
That night, I eat dinner on my own. The same woman in pastels tucks the sheet under my chin like I’m made of glass. She brushes a strand of hair from my face.
“You’re doing so well,” she whispers.
I smile again. Just enough.
When she leaves, I count ten full minutes.
Then I slip out of bed.
I walk to the wall behind the headboard.
I press my ear to it.
Nothing.
Good.
I pull the pen from the journal I wasn’t supposed to keep.
And with slow, careful precision?—
—I carve a word into the wall like maybe I might forget.
Vance.