Page 51 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

W ake. Dress. Smile. Comply. That’s the routine.

The order matters. So does the smile—just enough to look recovered, not so much that they’ll worry I’ve tipped the other way.

Every gesture is practiced now, polished like silver that no one touches.

I’m bathed in lavender-scented water. I’m brushed.

Dressed. Told I’m beautiful. Every morning someone new zips me into someone else’s life and says, “There you are.”

The therapist tells me I’m improving. She’s not a real therapist. I don’t think. Just someone Robert pays to babysit me. She’s not the worst I’ve had, this one. She wears pale pink and soft shoes and always crosses her legs the same way.

“You’re sleeping more,” she says. “You’re remembering things.” She says it as though remembering is good. As though it doesn’t burn behind my eyes. She says, “Let’s try one together.” I nod. That’s the part I’m best at.

She prompts me, hand resting lightly on her knee. “I’m grateful to be home.”

“I’m grateful to be home.”

“I was confused.”

“I was confused.”

“I imagined it.”

“I imagined it.”

She beams like we’re making something together. Like this is a craft project and not a script I’ve memorized in my sleep. “Now something just for you. Something you’d say to someone you love.”

Her voice is sugar, but her eyes are sharp. I smile like I’ve missed this. Like I’m grateful. “I missed you,” I say. It comes out smooth. Too smooth. She doesn’t notice. Or she does, and she thinks that means I’m better.

In the afternoons they bring me to my old bedroom.

His bedroom. It’s always the same. Soft lighting.

Curated music. Air that smells like roses pressed into cashmere.

A floor-length mirror glows gold from the lights around its frame.

A rack of clothes waits beside it—neutrals, blues, soft grays.

Silk blouses. Pencil skirts. Tasteful heels arranged like offerings.

They watch me change. I let them see my profile, the careful tuck of my blouse, the precise way I smooth my skirt and lift my chin. The therapist speaks to me gently as I apply tinted moisturizer and a colorless lip balm. “You’re remembering who you are,” she says. “You’re recovering.”

I nod as I sweep mascara through my lashes. I practice blinking the way I used to—slow, thoughtful, as if I’m just now seeing myself again for the first time. “I look better,” I say.

She smiles. “You look safe.”

We sit across from each other and rehearse. “I was sick,” she prompts.

“I was sick,” I repeat.

“I’m better now.”

“I’m better now.”

“You’re loved.”

“I’m loved.”

She studies my face each time like she’s reading for tone. I give her exactly what she wants. I say each line with a flicker of relief. I lean into the part like I wrote it myself—not because I believe it, but because I’m watching her watch me.

Robert visits on Wednesdays. He always smells like shaving cream and cologne that cost too much. He wears sweaters and shoes that never scuff.

“My girl,” he says, as though nothing ever happened. He doesn’t talk about the past. Just talks at me—about where we’ll travel when I’m better, how good I’ve been, how proud he is.

“I knew you’d come back,” he says. “You always do.”

I smile. Say, “I missed you.” Let him touch my wrist. Let him kiss my forehead. I even pretend I like it. That’s part of it, too. Knowing when not to resist. Knowing when to leave just enough tension in my fingers that he thinks he broke something. Not that I let it go.

They serve dinner on real plates now. China. White with a silver rim. I eat slowly. I cross my ankles. I say thank you. I fold my napkin in my lap and I never—ever—drop eye contact.

Back in the dressing room, they give me a task.

“Choose something you’d wear to brunch,” the therapist says.

I pick a cream blouse and a beige skirt.

I don’t look at the mirror while I dress.

I know what’s in it. I wait until I’m fully put together.

Then I turn and stare at myself until she says, “Beautiful.”

Later, alone, after the door is locked and everyone has gone to bed, I walk the perimeter of the room again. I’ve memorized every square inch.

Tonight I find the baseboard. I run my thumb over it. Rough. Shallow. But there. Words no one else will see.

I stand. Smooth the carpet with my palm. Shake it off.

Tomorrow I’ll wake early. I’ll eat the breakfast they leave by the door. I’ll take the pill. I’ll sit with the therapist and say every line with the right pauses. I’ll tell Robert thank you. I’ll press my cheek to his chest and breathe in the lie.

Even if it kills me.