Page 95 of The Master and the Marionette

“Had any visitors in your cage as of late?” Absinthe’s tone is bathed in eager cruelty.

I raise my eyes to look at her. She gives me a sidelong glance and smirks with an ugly show of a sharp snaggletooth.

“Our minds invent monsters when there’s no light.” A garbled, throaty laugh. “Better get used to it, girl.” She flips me on my right side and scrubs the sores on my backside. I wince, leaning my head against the tub.

“Just don’t scream and wake us up when your mind attacks itself. Darkness drives us all into agonizing madness.”

I try not to tremble at her warning. This keeps getting worse and worse. How am I going to survive this? I’ll go insane before I see my friends again. If I ever do see them again, that is.

I make the mistake of wincing as Absinthe uses the sponge to scrub my private parts raw. She backhands my bloody face and the red residue splatters to the floor.

“Damn you, girl. I’m the one that has to clean up this mess.” She takes my face by the chin and uses that same sponge to wash the blood off of my face. I hold my breath and shut my eyes, trying my hardest to keep from whimpering under her feral touch. She’s about as gentle as an angry hive of bees.

She dumps a cup of ice water over me to rinse off the soap, then reaches for a stack of white towels. Absinthe studies my naked body with a raised eyebrow and scornful eyes.

“Can you stand?”

I release a shaky breath. “I think so.” God, I hope so. If I fall, you’ll only beat me again.

She nods and holds her hand out, those arthritic knuckles, the gray tone to her flesh, and dark-blue veins pulsing under the crepe skin. I extend my arm from the tub and let her support my weight as I push as hard as I can to raise myself from the water. The task would have been hard enough without the weight of the water holding me down like a human-sized paperweight. My legs are wobbly, and my spine might have been replaced by a spaghetti noodle. It burns every joint, every ligament, every muscle to try and steady myself successfully. But I know that the price of giving in to this weakness and collapsing back into the tub will only encourage her to fulfill her promise to me. She’ll beat me dead. She will.

When I’m fully upright, water cascades down my nakedness in a downpour, like dragging a wrecked ship out of the ocean. Absinthe scrapes the towels across my wet body and watches me for a pained reaction. I keep my face still, refusing to give her even a twitch of my eye as she rakes over my sores, my breasts, my battered face.

After I’m patted down and semidry, she puts my white gown on. I stretch my arms out and let her pull it over my head. Small drops of blood saturate the pure-white cloth around my neckline.

“Sit,” she orders. I drop my butt into the wheelchair, noticing that my arm is still connected to the IV.

Absinthe stops pushing the wheelchair and pauses. “Has a man ever touched you, girl?”

I would say yes, but what if she calls me a whore? What if she beats me again for letting a man touch me out of wedlock? “No, ma’am,” I mutter. Safe answer.

She doesn’t say anything. The wheelchair moves again and I let my head hang once more, letting the blood drip down my throat, hang from my nose, seep past my lips. I hope I fall asleep once more, close my eyes and sink back into my mind. She opens the wooden door and rolls me back into prison. And there’s the cage, the metal table, and the kneecaps in the corner. Hello, Albatross.

As instructed, I crawl back into my cage and get into position to lie down. Absinthe parks the wheelchair in the back of the room, then shifts something across a surface quietly. Opens and closes a door.

“Here.” She reaches her hand into the right side of my cage, above my head. A slab of raw meat, the size of a stapler in her palm. Red, plump, and even a little bloody. “Eat it before I get hungry myself.”

I take it from her hand hesitantly. Normally, I would never eat this. Kane always cooked my food before I ate it. I wouldn’t even watch as he carved the meat from the bone. But with my shriveling stomach, trembling limbs, and weak pulse—I could die. And this thick chunk looks like it’s packed with protein. I could really use protein right now. My eyes shift back to her, questioning, waiting to get a last sign of nonverbal permission to eat it. She raises her eyebrows and nods.

Not a second wasted. I shove it into my mouth, not minding the raw taste, not minding the blood and juices running down my chin. I work mindlessly to chew and chew and chew. Oh, it’s so good. It’s so heavenly. Oh, I’m so happy. Thank you, Absinthe. You saved my life.

A metal cup hovers through the bars of my cage. I look up at her again as I swallow the last of the meat. She nods once more.

It’s only a little water. But dear God, IT’S WATER!

I want to say thank you. I want to tell her that this has made me so happy. But all my body and mind will allow me to do is guzzle that small puddle of water down my throat. It eases the roughness of my tongue and soothes the insides of my cheeks… but I want more.

I won’t ask though. No, absolutely not. That might prevent her from ever bringing me anything again. It may even encourage her to continue the force-feedings.

“And how do you show your thanks, girl?”

I grip the bars frantically and hum my praise. “Thank you, Absinthe! Thank you so much! Thank you!”

A smug tight-lipped smile smoothes the crow’s-feet across her mouth.

“That’s right, girl. Very good.”

35. The Ambrose Oasis

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