“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”
—Victor Hugo, Les Miserables
(Thirteen years old)
My throat burns like I swallowed a lit match. I wince when I suck in a deep breath, rolling over to lie on my other side, but I don’t bother to open my eyes and check the dispenser for water. Eleven months of being locked in here and it still sets my teeth on edge to use the handmade plastic bottle wired to the iron bars like a damn hamster’s cage. And anyway, no one’s stepped foot in the studio for a day and a half. So there’s no one to refill the thing.
It’s weird being alone. I want so badly to feel relief in the peace and quiet. To finally get a few solid hours of sleep and forget everything for a little while. But all it does is unsettle me. An unnerving feeling crawls up my spine at the strange absence in the air, and I don’t like it at all.
The seconds creep by, each one reminding me I’m still here, and I’m never getting out.
A thunk crashes outside the door, the steady turning of wheels following. I don’t even blink. I know what that sound means.
New arrival.
Poor bastard. I remember being the new kid. Waking up confused and cramped inside a crate. Being lifted onto a trolley and rolled through the narrow, rotten-smelling hall. Dropped off in a room filled with more crates just like mine. More kids just like me.
But that was a different time. A different me. After all the crap I’ve already gone through trying to survive on the streets, all the messed up things I’ve witnessed and pulled, I thought for sure I’d seen the worst parts of evil and had outrun them.
Turns out I’d never seen the real thing up close before. And you can’t outrun something you can’t see.
It’ll be a while before the new kid is brought to the studio. For their sake, I hope it’s alongwhile.
Moving slowly, I use my forearms to push off the ragged wool blanket draped across the steel flooring. I know from experience how quickly I’ll black out if I move too fast after going this long without a meal tray. Once I’m sitting up, I lean back against the cold wall for support as I stare into the empty cage across from me. Two weeks since it’d been set up there, and it’s still got no one.
I haven’t yet figured out why it’s here. Either Katerina decided she’s done having only one ‘pet’, or the thing was set up to taunt me with crap I’ll never have.
The new cage is larger than mine, running half the length of the wall instead of one-third. It also has a small built-in toilet and sink, and a plush-ass looking cot with blankets I’m betting can warm one’s body even in a freezing room like this one.
I fold my legs into my chest then wrap my arms around my knees, narrowing my eyes. After a second, I force myself to look away, but that only sets my gaze on the display case along the wall to my right.
My shoulders fall forward as I take it all in, the way I do every day. From here, the items behind the glass are passable as art. I never went to school, and I don’t know much about the subject, but New York City is full of starving artists camped out on the streets with their hats turned upside down for tips.
Some pieces behind the glass are big, like the skulls. Others are smaller, like the fingers, or long, like the arms. Some are dressed in animal skin, some in feathers. Most are painted—dark and gothic or light and majestic. A few are decorated in the kind of fine jewels rich people lose their shit over. The kind of jewels I would have stolen at the first chance I got if I were still on the outside.
In front of each piece sits a framed card-sized note with a stage name and some bullshit poem. I can’t read what they say from this far, and I don’t think I want to anyway.
There’s a Brazilian thing:There’s no good that lasts forever nor evil that never ends.I was still a baby when my mom fled from Brazil and illegally immigrated us to America, but I saw it on a bumper sticker a few years ago, and it stuck. Watching Katerina in the studio makes me realize the words are bull. At least the last half.
My lips curl, and a familiar unease stirs in my chest. My eyes dart to the work table not far from my reach. The silver surface is pristine, all shine and gloss. Just like the walls and floors of the place.
I never knew hell would be so spick-and-span.
The door creaks open, and the skin on the back of my neck prickles as Katerina steps inside. Lifting a hand, she flicks the expanse of switches beside the door. The brightest lights I’d ever seen before arriving to this place fill the space. I squint against the harshness. If she only flicks the top two, it means she’s just stopping by. But the whole switchboard? That means she’s here to work.
A mixture of disgust, turmoil, and apprehension unfolds in my stomach. I get the feeling that if I have to stay in this place much longer, those lights alone will make me go insane.
She takes another step, and the door swings shut behind her. I wait, knowing what’s coming.
To my surprise, she isn’t alone.
A small girl pokes her head out from behind Katerina’s legs. Her little arms are wrapped around the woman’s thigh, her eyes scanning the room with a look that reminds me of the apprehension I feel. Katerina pats the girl’s hair, and searing hot anger spikes inside my gut.
The hell?
I jump to my feet, grabbing one of the bars for balance when a wave of dizziness rushes straight to my head. Katerina ignores me, ushering the girl to the left—to the empty cage.
My throat tightens, and my breaths grow short, my fingers curling around the iron bar. This can’t be right. The girl can’t be older than five or six. Katerina never takes them this young.
