I count my breaths.
I count theirs too.
And I wait.
Because this cage isn’t the prison.
They are.
And I’m certain they’re not done with me.
Aconstellation of sharp, bruised aches blooms across my ribs, my back, my legs. Memories of the night flood back not as a coherent stream, but as a series of staccato jabs and brutal pain.
I didn’t sleep. I hovered in a miserable, shallow pool of awareness. Flinching at every sound, every creak of the other girls’ cots, waiting for the next violation. My body is a map of their disdain, etched in purple and yellow.
Then the third sensation arrives, so violent it eclipses the cold and the pain; hunger.
It’s a raw, hollow grinding in the pit of my stomach, a desperate ache that claws its way up into my throat. I haven’t eaten since the piece of bread yesterday, and my body is screaming for fuel. The need is so primal, so all-consuming that for a single, wild moment I consider begging. The shame of that thought is what finally coaxes my eyes open.
The main room is bathed in the weak, grey light of early morning. The other girls are already stirring, stretching with soft, contented sighs that are like knives in my ears. They look rested, pampered. Their skin is dewy, their hair brushed. I feel like something dug up from the earth, grimy and broken.
The door clangs open and Mistress enters, followed by two other women pushing a trolley. The smell that wafts in makes my stomach clench with a painful spasm. It’s the scent of fresh, sweet pastries. Of ripe berries, of creamy yogurt. It’s the most beautiful, most torturous smell I have ever encountered.
The other girls line up, and bowls are handed to them. I watch, my mouth flooding with saliva as they take their bounty back to their cots. They eat with small, delicate bites, laughing softly amongst themselves. Julie catches mestaring, and she smiles. A slow, cruel twist of her lips and takes an exaggerated bite of a flaky, buttery croissant.
I look away, pressing my face into the cold unforgiving bars of my cage.
Then, Mistress’s footsteps approach my cage. The click of the lock is deafening. I don’t look up. I hear a dull, scraping sound as something is pushed through the narrow gap at the bottom of the bars.
“Breakfast,” Mistress’s voice is flat, devoid of all emotion.
I force myself to turn my head, and my mind simply stops.
It’s a metal bowl. But in it, isn’t food, at least, not human food.
It’s a pile of dry, brown, vaguely meat-smelling pellets. It’s kibble. Actual dog kibble.
My brain refuses to process it. This has to be a joke. A terrible, sick joke designed to test me. I don’t dare look up at Mistress, but I know the other girls have stopped eating to watch.
The room is silent except for the sound of my own ragged breathing. The hunger in my stomach is a rabid animal. Howling, demanding I eat whatever is placed before me but the shame is a colder, sharper thing, telling me I would rather die.
I can’t. I just can’t.
Slowly, shaking, I turn my face away again. I close my eyes, trying to block out the world. The smell of pastries, the sight of the kibble, the sound of their silent, mocking laughter.
“Suit yourself,” Mistress says. The lock clicks again. “Up. Now. You absolutely stink.”
The cage door swings open. I don’t move. I can’t. My limbs are leaden with exhaustion and despair. The women who came in with the trolley grab me under my arms and haul me out. My legs buckle but they hold me upright, dragging my bare feet across the floor.
They don’t take me to the bathroom the other girls use. They half-drag, half-carry me down a short, bleak corridor to a tiled room with a drain in the centre. It smells faintly of mildew and industrial cleaner.
The other girls follow, a silent, gawking procession. They line up in the doorway, their breakfast bowls in their hands, their faces masks of cold curiosity.
The women holding me don’t speak. Their hands are rough and efficient. I try to cover myself with my arms, but one of the women slaps my hands away.
I stand there, shivering, my head bowed as one of them picks up a hose attached to the wall. Without warning a jet of freezing, pressurized water hits me square in the chest.
The air is stolen from my lungs. It’s so cold it feels like fire, like a thousand needles piercing my skin.
