I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat working against the unnatural invasion. The liquid keeps coming, too fast, too much. My stomach cramps, swelling under the pressure, and for a wild, dizzying second, I think it might split open.
I whimper, my fingers clawing at what feels like nothing but the air around me.
Memories flicker, useless, taunting. My mother’s cooking, the smell of garlic and herbs, the warmth of a real meal. The way my stomach used to growl in anticipation, and not in dread.
A sob catches in my chest, but I swallow it down.
I won’t give him that.
I won’t.
The man tosses the bottle, and that’s the only warning I get before he yanks the tube back out. It rips free, leaving my throat raw and burning. I lurch forward, landing on all fours with my stomach heaving, bile rising in a hot rush.
Then the prod hovers inches from my face, its tip glowing faintly blue. The smell of ozone fills the air, sharp and electric.
“You vomit, you get punished,” he says, his voice flat. “Choose.”
My body shakes. My mouth floods with acid, the taste rancid. I swallow hard, forcing it back down while my throat convulses and protests. I gag again, but clench my teeth while my eyes water with the effort.
Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.
The man watches me, his head tilted like he’s studying some fascinating specimen. Then, slowly, his lips curl.
The lights above buzz, relentless. My stomach churns, the artificial fullness making me nauseous, but I don’t move. Don’t speak.
He leaves without another word.
The door clicks shut, and I’m alone again.
Alone with the taste of bile, the ache in my throat, the knowledge that tomorrow? Tomorrow, they’ll do all of this all over again.
My fingers play with the new chain around my neck. At the end hangs a little crystal vial, one filled with her virgin blood and my come. I encased it in 24 carat gold. Her ruin, all dressed up as a memento for me to keep forever.
On the screen in front of me I can see every tiny detail, every flinch, every tear, every spark of agony that rips through her. The image is perfect. So clear, it’s as if I’m in the room, staring down at her naked form.
Grace is on her knees, her hands clasped behind her back, her blonde hair matted with sweat and grime. Issac stands over her, holding the cattle prod loosely in his grip, the tip still crackling with residual electricity.
“What’s your name?” he asks, his voice a little distorted through the speakers.
She lifts her head enough that I can see her face, but she’s careful not to look Issac in the eyes. Her lips tremble as she mutters the word “Grace.”
The prod strikes her shoulder before she can finish the word. Her body convulses, a scream tears from her throat as she collapses onto her side, writhing.
“Wrong answer,” Issac says, nudging her with his boot. “Try again.”
Grace gasps, her chest heaving. “M-my name is Grace.”
Another shock. This time, she doesn’t just scream - she shrieks, her back arches off the ground, her fingers claw at the concrete floor. The sound of it scrapes against my skull, raw and desperate and it takes me right back to that room in Oblivion, when she was clawing at my skin as I fucked her.
“No,” Issac says, crouching beside her. “You don’t have a name. Not anymore. You belong tousnow.”
Grace shakes her head violently, her breath coming in ragged sobs. “No. No, my name is Grace. Grace.Grace.”
She really is a stubborn thing. Stubborn and stupid, just like her mother.
The prod strikes her again, and again.
She thrashes, her body jerking wildly under the assault as her screams dissolve into incoherent cries. Issac doesn’t stop, he doesn’t give a moment to catch her breath. He does exactly as he’s instructed, he continues breaking her the way we know will work best.
