Page 49 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

I wake again, this time with the heavy feeling of the house settling into my bones. The air feels different. Thicker. Dense with expectation, heavy with the demand for gratitude. A warning hangs in it: prove you can behave.

I don’t move.

The room is unchanged. White walls. Soft robe. Neutral art. The kind of minimalism that passes for peace when someone else paid for it. I remember the word I carved into the wall last night—*Vance*. I don’t need to check if it’s still there. I can feel the grooves under my skin.

No one tells me how long it’s been. Robert never answers when I ask. But I’ve stopped asking. When I do, he just smiles like the question is beneath me now. Like he already knows I’ve given up on the calendar.

The woman in pastels arrives again. Always the same smile. Always the clipboard. I know her lines before she speaks them.

“Good morning, Marlowe,” she says, like I’m seven and trying shoes on the wrong feet.

I nod. She writes something down. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before that.

“Today’s another low-stimulation day,” she adds. “No screens. No visitors. Just light integration.”

That’s the script. It never changes. I nod again. I’m good at that part.

She sets the tray down on the side table. Smoothie. Almonds. Something green that might’ve started as yogurt. A pill. Always the pill. Always in its own little dish like it earned the right to be served.

“You’ll feel better once you’re nourished,”she says, and her eyes flicker to the door. Like she’s checking for someone. Or waiting to be told she said it right.

I take the pill. I drink the smoothie. I eat just enough of the rest to pass inspection.

She doesn’t leave right away. Just watches me. Head tilted slightly, pen hovering over her clipboard like she’s waiting for a misstep. Eventually, she exhales and leaves. The door sighs closed.

I stay seated. Still holding the glass like it’s part of the act. Across the room, the plant in the corner looks fake today. Too green. Too upright. I stare at it until the silence starts to bend.

No clocks here. No sounds that haven’t been filtered and rehearsed. Just the house pretending to be something it’s not.

By midday, Robert shows up.

He’s wearing another suit—gray this time, thin tie, polished shoes. Nothing ever creases. Nothing ever falters.

“My girl,” he says, stepping into the room like he belongs to it. “You’re glowing today.”

I say nothing. That’s part of it, too. Knowing when to speak. Knowing when silence is a better answer.

“I thought we’d take a short walk,” he says. “You’ve earned that, haven’t you?”

The question’s rhetorical. I stand. He doesn’t reach for me. Just waits. I fall in step beside him like it’s my idea.

We walk the stone path behind the house, the one that winds through a garden built to impress people who don’t ask questions. Roses. Lavender. Pale things with no scent.

“This is progress,” he says, pausing beside the fountain. He places a hand lightly against my back. “We built this for you. To remind you what you’re coming back to.”

Coming back. As if I ever had a choice.

“Do you remember what happened?” he asks.

That’s his line. He always waits until we’re outside to say it. Like nature makes the lie easier to swallow.

“I was sick,” I say.

He nods, proud. “And now?”

“I’m getting better.”

“Good.” His smile widens. “You’re earning trust again. And when we trust you—really trust you—then we’ll talk about what’s next. A trial outing, maybe. Brunch.”

Brunch. That’s what they call freedom now.

We walk another lap. He talks about renovations. About guest lists. About which friends will be thrilled to see me again. He’s writing my future like I won’t be there for it.

After lunch—grilled fish, steamed vegetables, no salt—I’m sent to change. A cream blouse waits on the bed. A skirt beside it. Nude heels by the mirror. No tags. Nothing sharp. Everything softened for safety.

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.

He turns toward me. Smiles like we’re in on the same secret.

“You’re safe now,” he says. “You don’t need to worry.”

The word vibrates through me.

“I know.”

“Your debt will be paid soon. Then you can decide what you want to do.” He flashes a smile, then gestures around the room. “But I have a feeling you’ll never leave. Why would you?”

“I was sick,” I tell him, the way we rehearsed it.

He nods once. Walks to the door.

Just before he leaves, he looks back.

“Tomorrow’s a big day,” he says. “Don’t be nervous.”

I listen to him walk away.

But this time, I don’t wait for permission.

The window’s narrowing.

If Vance is dead, I move.

And if he’s not?—

He’s already on his way.