Page 76 of This Vicious Hunger
“You unload the cart.” The old Thora would have cowered in shame at my brashness, but anger might as well steam from my pores for the good it would do trying to keep it in. “Olea’s not your slave.”
Petaccia straightens her shoulders and stares me right in the eye. “Do you think you’re in a good position for bargaining?” she asks.
“You have more to lose than we do. If you want notes from us, confirmation of theories or contradictions, then a bit of work on your end wouldn’t go amiss. We’re sick of you treating us like chattel. And don’t get me started on the way you’ve treated Olea—for saying she’s your own goddamn flesh and blood.” The words pour out of me. I can’t believe I ever thought I could trust her.
Petaccia’s dark eyes glitter with a mixture of what might be amusement and malice; it’s always so hard to tell. She shifts so she can see Olea clearly over my shoulder.
“Is this how you feel?” she asks coldly.
Olea is silent. I turn, urging her with my eyes to agree with me, to back me on this the way I know she desperately wants to. She doesn’t deserve to be in this mental prison as well as a physical one. But Olea stares down at her hands, fingers clenched—fingers that were, an hour ago, curled so hard inside me I wept from the beauty of it.
“Exactly what I thought,” Petaccia says. “You see, Thora, Olea is not so quick to turn her back on the one who has nurtured her—”
“You call thisnurture?” I gesture wildly at the sacks and jars of food.
“Olea has had access to everything she could possibly need. I really don’t see your problem. Any other woman would be grateful for such an opportunity. I taught her to read and write myself; she has access to novels and plays and scientific treatises, books on art and music, and the instruments and utensils to practise. If she ever wanted for anything, all she had to do was ask.” Petaccia pauses for a second, reaching up to adjust her protective clothing, and then points at me. “Isn’t this the same thing youwishedfor?” she demands.
I balk. “It’s not the same and you know it—”
“Is it not?” Petaccia bares her stained teeth in a smile that’s half grimace. “I wasn’t lying when I said I saw something of myself in you, Thora. A young widow, trapped in society’s customs and graces, without the financial or physical wherewithal to get out. A woman forced to marry for the sake of seeming respectability. A woman judged and criticised for asking questions, for wanting toknowabout this world we live in. Olea has never been exposed to any of that. I wanted to give you the same opportunity—”
“There’s no reasoning with her,” Olea says quietly. It’s the first thing she’s said the entire time Petaccia has been here, and it has the same weary detachment as always. “Come on. Help me unload the food. It’ll be quicker that way.”
“No,” I say, very calmly. “The doctor unloads the food.”
“Thora, please—”
“Olea.” I fix her with a gaze that I hope says it all.If we don’tstand up to her, ifyoudon’t stand up to her, then we are nothing more than guinea pigs in this place. We might as well leave.
Olea doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak. Indecision thins her lips. She knows I’m right: the lock on the gate was deterrent enough to keep me from fleeing right after our awakening, but it is Olea that keeps us here now, her evergreen fear of life outside the garden masquerading as concern about the long-term clinical effects of our cure. Without Olea I would not still be here, and she knows it. But I know she has a lot to process, and, well, it seems like we might have time yet.
“I…”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Petaccia snaps irritably. “I don’t have all day. And since the both of you seem determined to play out this little routine, go on—I’ll bite. Move out of the way, Olea, and I’ll unload the food, and then I want whatevernotesyou’ll deign to give me. How’s that?”
After Petaccia is gone, we do not talk about what occurred. In fact, aside from our single conversation about keeping the nature of our new gifts from her, we do not talk about the doctor at all. Not yet.
The third time she visits after the cure, Petaccia is a silent presence, leaving behind fresh supplies of food and wine while Olea and I nap in the depths of the garden. She doesn’t attempt to keep up the pretence of taking our notes—no doubt after the last visit completely aware we’ve been lying. Perhaps she is watching us, determining for herself the effects of the antidote. This occurs to me early on, given how fast she arrived in the garden for Olea’s death and Olea’s suspicions about other gates, but I’ve yet to gather any actual proof. And what does it matter? We will have to face her eventually: there isn’t anywhere for us to go if we wantthe answers ourselves. Try as I might to rationalise it, leaving the garden is not the right decision. Petaccia is correct: here, we have everything we need, food, water, shelter, sunlight, recreation… Out there—who’s to say the impact our toxicity will have on the world?
Olea pretends not to care either way, happy to be caught up in our pleasure if it means not addressing the truths of Petaccia and her childhood. Part of me knows I should be embarrassed at the prospect of somebody watching us; only weeks ago I stole that book from the library to read in secret, a book that had ended my marriage (and, admittedly, my husband’s life) and could easily have ended me if the likes of my father had discovered the truth about my feelings. When Aurelio discovered it, it very nearly did.
Here, in the garden, we don’t talk about the world outside. Not any more. It is remarkable how quickly we fall into days and nights of discussing nothing more than hunger and sex. We settle into a rhythm of casual chaos, sleeping and fucking without care, and I wonder: Isthisfreedom? Is this what I have searched for my whole life?
It is nearly three weeks before things change. It starts slow, barely noticeable at first. It takes me longer to fall asleep, worries about Petaccia and the antidote creeping in, thoughts of what she’s doing on the outside, and whether Leo is worried about me. They don’t all come at once, not a steady stream but more of a drip. So insidious I don’t truly realise the difference from those early days of abandon until it is too late.
I notice Olea is sleeping less too. Neither of us has had her monthly courses (and truly I suspect we might never have them again), but our moods rise and fall with the same rhythm. Olea becomes irritable, prone to hours in the afternoons where she wanders out of sight and does not reappear until dinner. Andthe hunger—we both begin to eat more. It is fun at first, cooking together in the cramped cellar. We concoct strange dishes from potatoes and onions and dried pasta, mushrooms and rare fruits we pick from the garden’s hidden hollows that Olea knows well. We cook vats of the stuff and then pick at it for days between sex and books and games. The weeks pass and the food lasts hours instead of days, though neither of us gains any weight. We fuck like rabbits, abandoning the books in favour of the garden more nights than not.
“It’s not enough,” I growl one night. We lie panting at the base of the stairs to the top tower room, since we couldn’t even make it to the bed. Olea is stripped of her nightgown to the waist, her breasts covered in bruises that are already yellowing and faded. I regret the teeth marks in an abstract sort of way, and in the same breath long to create them again, to draw blood and taste its metallic tang on my tongue.
“It will settle,” Olea soothes. She pulls the straps of her nightgown up, hiding her flesh away. A flash of annoyance takes me, a stabbing kind of jealousy, but I push it down. “These urges are… They’re normal, because of the plants and the toxins. You’ll see. I’ve had them in some form or other my whole life.”
“Worse than this?” I ask. I narrow my gaze. “Are you saying you’vealwayswanted to carry me halfway up a staircase and fuck me until I scream?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Because I can’t imagine anything worse than this.”
“You can’t imagine anything worse than three orgasms in a row?” Olea raises an eyebrow.
