DREAMS ARE BETTER THAN CAGES
Good Girl - Morganne
Kookaburra
The first rule of captivity is to look tame.
The second is to make them believe it was their idea.
So I start playing the pet.
I smile when they bring food. Saythank you. Ask about the weather. I even hum sometimes – small, tuneless little noises that make the orderlies think I’m finally settling in.
Doctor Callaway calls itstability.I call itreconnaissance.
Two weeks in and she’s getting softer with me. Staff come and go here faster than the weather changes – agency hires, burnouts, ghosts in uniforms – no one stays long enough to ask why. The crisp professionalism is still there, but it wavers. Thedoctor lingers in my doorway after sessions, tells me things she shouldn’t – tiny, human details.
That she hates the beds here. That the power keeps cutting out. That she hasn’t had a day off in six months. Every confession is a thread. And I’m already weaving.
Two weeks in and my body finally remembers I’m pregnant – tiny shifts, little tugs, nothing dramatic, just enough to annoy me. Mostly, I ignore it and it ignores me and we can get along just fine. I know it can’t last forever, but as they say, ignorance is bliss. Though, let’s make one thing clear: I’m not attached. I’m aware. Awareness is survival. Attachment gets you killed. And I very much intend tolive.
By the end of the second week, I’ve learned the rhythm of the facility.
Three day orderlies on rotation now that I took care of Mr Mulcherson. Two actually work. One sleeps through half his shift. Eight guards. Two additional night orderlies on alternate late shifts. The security cameras buzz on a half-second delay. The medication fridge clicks when it unlocks. The outer door? Takes six seconds to close fully once the alarm is keyed.
Plenty of time if you ever wanted to follow someone out. Not that I do. Not yet. Patience is an art form.
I start small. Tests. Doctor Callaway leaves her keys on the counter while logging an incident report. I move them one inch to the left. She frowns when she picks them up but says nothing.
The next day, I move them again.
Still nothing. Progress.
In the evenings, I cook. Therapy, she says. Self-regulation. “Routine is grounding.”
She doesn’t know I’m using her routines to map blind spots.
Tonight it’s soup – thin, grey, tragic. I stir it and hum under my breath until one of the night orderlies wanders in, a booktucked under his arm. His name’sRay. He’s the type who talks to women like they owe him a reaction and I hate him.
“Didn’t know the monster could cook,” he says, smiling with his teeth.
I smile back. “Didn’t know the help could read.”
He laughs, but it’s too close, too warm. His breath smells like instant coffee and arrogance. He leans an elbow on the counter beside me, eyes crawling down my arm.
“You get lonely in here?” he asks, suggestively. I swallow bile and smile.
“No,” I say. “But you will.”
He doesn’t get it. He never would.
He reaches out, fingers brushing the inside of my wrist – slow, testing.
I let him. Just long enough. Then I turn the ladle and pour boiling soup down his arm.
He screams. It’s high and sudden and perfect. The smell of scalded skin hits like burnt sugar. He staggers back, knocking the cart. A tray clatters to the floor.
Doctor Callaway bursts in at the sound. Her eyes take in everything – the overturned pan, the steam, the orderly clutching his arm, me standing there calm as a saint. For a heartbeat, the air doesn’t move.
