Chapter 9
Petal
A sandwich. It’s a fucking sandwich.
I stayed on my corner for a few more minutes after the mysterious girl left the room, paralyzed by my own fear and confusion, before I brought the bottle back up to my lips, taking another swig from it. It’s a small bottle and I finished half of it with my first greedy pulls, but forced myself to stop after that last. I don’t know if and when I’ll be given more, so rationing what I have seems to be the smart choice.
Besides, I’d like to avoid having to use that awful prison toilet for as long as possible.
I approached the tray she left behind with caution, slowly moving toward it while eyeing it suspiciously, as if I were expecting a bomb to be hiding underneath the lid. My heart was hammering with fearful suspense when I reached for the lid, my hand resting on it for a few seconds before I dared to lift it up.
Just to find nothing but a sandwich in front of me. Wheat bread, lettuce, cheese, ham, and some tomato.
I feel appalled at the sight.
It feels like a slap in the face. As if I’m some kind of animal, kept in a cage, fed with just enough to keep her alive for someone else’s amusement.
For his amusement. He wasn’t the one who brought it, but I’m sure the sad-looking girl who carried this tray is just another one of his captives. She was ordered to do this, just like I was ordered to kneel in front of him. Maybe he even promised her something in return if she did what he told her to. Or maybe he threatened her with punishment if she didn’t comply.
He probably forbade her to speak with me, too. All she was to do was bring me something to drink and to eat.
A sandwich.
How dare he.
I don’t want his fucking sandwich. I feel sick to my stomach just looking at it.
Yet, I reach for it, weighing the outrageous thing in my hand while I try to make sense of the anger that’s taken ahold of me. My first instinct tells me to throw the damn thing against the wall, followed by wild curses that let him know how ridiculous it is of him to think I would eat this.
But where would that get me? What kind of reaction would I possibly draw from him? It would make a statement, but a weak one. It would tell him I refuse to be fed like a zoo animal. It would show him that I’m stubborn and strong.
But it wouldn’t leave any impact beyond that. It wouldn’t send a message and it wouldn’t help me phrase a demand of my own.
He’d most likely storm inside the room, pull up my gown and beat me like he did before. He’d make me cry out in pain. Maybe he’d even relish the sound and seeing me in anguish due to his harsh treatment.
He probably does. He must love it. That sick bastard.
I won’t eat this damn sandwich, which means I will be punished anyway, no doubt. I might as well send a message and give him something to think about.
My eyes wander the room, checking it for the umpteenth time. There must be a camera in here somewhere. It’s no coincidence that he showed up shortly after I woke from my eerie slumber. He must have been watching me from somewhere.
But no matter how intensely I search, no matter how often my eyes wander to each and every corner, up and down, along the sides of the door, above the door, along the edges of the ceiling—I can’t find anything but solid concrete. There’s nothing in here except for the steely toilet seat and the light bulb above my head.
The light bulb.
The sound of my sharp inhale echoes through the room while I tilt my head back. Squinting at the bright light above, I try to find anything that could pass as a camera. They can build them small these days, really small. So I could be looking for something the size of a pencil point.
Still holding the sandwich in my hand, I climb on top of the bench that’s placed right beneath the light bulb, but just as expected, I’m still not able to reach it. The ceiling is too high, the bench too low, and I’m too short, despite being anything but that. Frustrated, I step back on the ground and walk in circles beneath the light bulb, assessing it from every angle without finding anything. Still, it remains my main suspect in this matter. If I want to tell him something, I should probably aim it at the light above. As if I were praying to God.
I bet he’d love that unmerited comparison.
Pushing the bench aside, I make room beneath the light, energized by the rage his audacious food offering has sparked within me.
A sandwich, after what he’s done to me.
He thinks he can order me around with one-word commands. Well, who says I can’t do the same?
I’m smiling as I start picking the sandwich apart, dissecting the bread into small pieces while my heart starts beating with a thrill of anticipation. I carefully place each crumbled-up piece on the concrete ground, taking my time and relishing the idea that he might be watching me right now, wondering what the hell I’m doing with the precious food he so generously offered.
He’ll be mad. Oh yes, he’ll be mad at me.
I will get punished.
But unlike the first time, it will be worth it.