CONSEQUENCES
Sara
Never thought I’d miss the cabin cell. Then again, that place didn’t look like it was designed by a sadist. At least it appeared like someone could survive in it, with a window letting in light and a temperature to suggest comfort.
But this? This is a step sideways into some depraved prison fantasy.
My stomach churns as I take in my new cage.
The smell of dust, metal, and freshly cut wood surrounds me, along with all the furniture that had been in that little room before.
The bed, the chair, and the table are all crammed into this small space.
An old sink and a boiler huddle in the corner alongside a bulky appliance that might be an electric heater.
A portable toilet sits behind a freestanding screen.
A single fluorescent tube buzzes overhead, way too bright and cold. There’s no switch.
I sit hunched on the folding bed, arms locked around me, breathing in and defying the urge to break. While I was out there fighting my way through the thicket, he didn’t even bother to come after me. Instead, he set up my punishment. What a sicko!
Consumed by the impulse to escape, I gave no thought to what awaited me should I fail. I thought I was clever or even brave, actually believing my attempt to get out would lead me somewhere.
Now my feet are shredded. Every part of me aches. Cold seeps into my bones despite the heater that obviously hasn’t kicked in yet. I should’ve seen this coming. I did, but I didn’t care enough to stop myself.
As soon as the bolt unfastens, I’m on my feet and behind the table, as if that flimsy barrier could shield me.
Chris enters, and I sense the rage within him, though his face gives nothing away.
“Sit.” He points, the command so sharp it bites.
Too spent to push back, I do as he says.
He’s on me even before my butt touches the chair, snapping cuffs around my wrists like I’m a high-risk criminal.
“Hey! I—”
“I need to check your injuries,” he cuts in flatly, “and I trust you even less now. So stop complaining!”
My mouth opens and closes, unable to find anything to say.
“I’m sick of your attitude,” he adds.
The words hit harder than I want to admit. I’ve heard them before. Too many times. From someone else who also treated me as a burden any time the cameras were off.
He disappears for a moment and returns with a small bucket and a first aid kit the size of a toolbox. When he lifts the lid, gauze, several tubes, and medical tape come into view. He fills the bucket with water, then gathers everything he needs on the table. “I’ll have to get rid of your pants.”
Scissors in hand, he slices up the sides of my leggings and tears them open all the way to my knees, pulling the fabric apart like it’s paper.
The cloth sticks to the dried blood on my legs, and it hurts like hell, but I don’t flinch, don’t show any weakness.
That’s until he’s tugging off my sneakers.
Then I can’t help it. I grimace and suck in a breath. My feet resemble raw meat.
Annoyance and disappointment pinch at his features before he exhales deeply.
“I’m sorry.” The apology tumbles out before I can catch it. The pain barely touches me now. Helplessness is what makes me wince.
He pauses. “For running away or hurting yourself?”
I don’t respond. Unable to face him, my gaze drifts elsewhere. I’m not sure which is worse, admitting I regret escaping or failing at it.
He dips a strip of gauze in warm water and washes the dirt from my knees and shins, revealing angry scratches beneath. They’re not severe. Nothing needs stitching, but there are lots of them.
“Try to hold still.” He picks up a bottle with clear liquid, harmless in appearance until it hits skin.
The sting is instant. It burns like fire racing under my flesh, and I clench my jaw, suppressing any sound that wants to get out.
When he touches the raw patches where blisters and chafing tore my skin, I kick.
A reflex he was ready for. He catches my ankle and firmly presses it down.
It’s agony, but I breathe through it.
After he’s done cleaning and treating the broken skin, he wraps my feet with precision. I watch his steady hands. They work fast. He’s no stranger to this. “Anything else I should know about?” he asks.
I shake my head. He watches me for a beat longer, then nods once, snaps the kit shut and leaves.
Right before I panic about being shackled and alone, he returns with a steaming plate of food.
My stomach growls loudly as soon as the smell hits my nostrils.
He holds up that stupid spork as if studying it.
“I’m going to feed you.”
And gone is my appetite. I gape at him, unable to process.
“You can eat my way,” he states evenly, “or not at all.” There’s no threat in his voice. That’s what makes it worse. It’s simply a fact.
When I don’t say anything, he’s already on his way out and only stops at my desperate “Okay!” Gosh.
Turning back, he sits down on the bed and pulls my chair between his knees. Too close for me to cause damage, close enough for him to reach my mouth. He feeds me small bites in silence.
The food tastes better than it should. Or I’m just that hungry. My pride’s somewhere at the bottom of the lake he pulled me out of, but right now, I don’t even know if I care anymore. The calories will give me strength to fight back against whatever comes next.
When the plate is empty, he stands and unlocks the cuffs. My wrists sting where the metal bit in. I rub them absently.
“Get cleaned up,” he says, gesturing at the sink. “As best you can.” At the door, he turns. “If the light comes on, you are to sit in the chair.” He stares me down. “Disobey again, and I’ll keep you alive, nothing more.” Then he’s gone.
Only after the bolt slides into place, does some of the tension ease.
I flex my fingers and carefully push myself to my aching feet.
I drag myself across the room to the sink, and press the pump of the dispenser.
A thin ribbon of soap coils into my palm.
It smells faintly medicinal as I rub it over my skin.
The tap groans when I twist it, releasing a sluggish, lukewarm stream, but at least it’s clear.
I rinse, watching suds slide down the drain, then grab the scratchy towel to blot the water from my hands.
I fish the toothbrush out of the paper cup, squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles, and scrub until my gums sting.
There’s no change of clothes, only the robe I wore yesterday.
It’s folded and draped over the screen next to that embarrassing toilet thing.
All I have are my tattered leggings and my mom’s hoodie, crusted with dirt.
It’s smudged and soaked, frayed where the thorn bush tore at it, reeking of sweat and panic.
I peel it off slowly, trying to stay composed, and hang it over the screen like it’s sacred, hoping it’ll dry clean and the dirt won’t cling to the memory. It’s supposed to remind me of my mom, not of the fucked-up mess I’m in right now.
The robe is clean and dry. Other than that, it doesn’t improve anything. My body’s heavy with exhaustion, and every time I close my eyes, I either see that bear, the railroad tracks, or the flash of headlights before the world went black.
I make it to the folding bed and curl up on the mattress, tugging the blanket up to my chin.
The faint scent of detergent is oddly out of place.
The light goes out, leaving me in eerie darkness.
Of course, a red LED glimmers against the black.
First, he saw me under the shower. Now he’s watched me strip off my hoodie with nothing underneath.
I suppose privacy is a privilege, one I no longer possess.
Funny how it worked out. I escaped because I refused to be controlled, refused to be caged, and now look at me.
I’ve become exactly what I feared most: his pet.
I’m too tired to be angry. Too defeated to be scared. Tomorrow I can bite again, I guess. But right now, I need rest.
◆◆◆
I swing between burning up and shivering, over and over throughout the night, until I’m tangled in sweat-damp sheets, scratching at skin that won’t stop itching.
Every inch of me hurts, and I’m caught in a mental freefall that seems to last forever until sleep finally drags me under.
The dreams that follow give me no relief, though.
They come fast and jagged, stitching together every disaster that’s brought me here.
A greatest-hits reel of everything I couldn’t outrun.
Covered in sweat, I wake with a gasp. My mouth tastes like old dust. I’m hollowed out.
My limbs are sore, my tattered soles throbbing beneath the bandages.
But the worst part is how drained I am. Like the night stripped everything away and offered nothing in return, not even a dream worth holding on to.
A harsh buzz sounds before the sterile light floods the shed.
I blink up at it, disoriented. My first instinct is to pull the blanket tighter around myself. I don’t move otherwise. I sit there, curled up, watching the exit and waiting.
The seconds stack up and nothing happens. Then the light clicks off again and leaves me staring into the half-darkness. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or worried.
I stay motionless for a moment longer as my pulse slows to normal.
Once I’m sure no one is coming in, I force myself to get up.
Moving at a snail’s pace, I limp toward the sink.
The cold water pricks at my fingers. Does that boiler work at all?
Washing what I can with what’s there, I inspect the small wounds that lie open.
They’ve already started to heal, which explains all the itching.
I rake my fingers through my hair and pick out a leaf I must have missed yesterday.
This time, my duffel doesn’t magically cough up fresh clothes. Another privilege lost.
I shuffle back to the bed, easing myself onto it with a sigh that doesn’t belong to someone my age.
My eyes drift from the chair to the ceiling and back to the chair.
Is that what he meant? As soon as the lights turn on, I’m supposed to move.
I’m supposed to sit like a dog waiting for its treat?
And if I don’t? Then my prison stays locked, food and fresh air are withheld, and I’m left all alone?
I play along because I have to. It’s the only way to find out. The urge to fight just for the sake of it can’t control me right now. I need to understand how this place works before I waste what little fire I have left.