Chapter 5: The First Meal
The sun moved. It dragged its white-hot weight across the sky. The shadows of the palm trees stretched long, thin fingers toward the cage. The tarmac cooled from a griddle to a warm plate. The burn on her skin settled into a tight, angry glow.
Thirst came. A dry scraping at the back of her throat. A hollow ache behind her eyes. She watched a bead of sweat trace a path from her temple, down her neck, over her collarbone. It vanished into the valley between her breasts. She didn’t lick her lips. The rules were in her head. A silent chant. Eyes down. Speak only. Holes are mine.
A lizard darted across the concrete. A flash of green. Gone.
Her mind drifted. Not to before. Not to the school, not to anything soft. It drifted to the emptiness of the cage. The geometry of the mesh. The way her breath hitched if she tried to fill her lungs all the way. The posture was a deep, bone ache now. A part of the structure of her.
Footsteps.
Not the guard’s heavy tread. Lighter. Crisp. The tap of leather soles.
She knew the rhythm. Her blood knew it before her mind did. A cold spike drove down her spine. She kept her eyes on the puddle, now just a dark stain.
He stopped just outside the cage. She saw his shoes. Polished Oxfords. Dust from the tarmac on the fine leather.
“Look up.”
His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
She raised her head. The movement was stiff, painful. Her neck cracked.
Mr. Thornton stood there. The sunset was behind him, a violent smear of orange and purple that turned him into a silhouette. He held a metal bucket in one hand. In the other, a slim digital camera. The guard stood a few paces back, arms folded.
Thornton studied her. His eyes were in shadow. “Disgusting,” he said, almost conversational. “A filthy animal in a cage. Do you feel like an animal?”
She opened her mouth. Her tongue was a dry sponge. “Yes, Sir.”
“What do animals eat?”
She blinked. “I… I don’t know, Sir.”
“Scraps,” he said. “Garbage. Offal.”
He swung the bucket. The contents sloshed thickly. He set it down with a clang. He unlatched the cage door, swung it open. The space was too small for him to enter. He didn’t need to.
He upended the bucket onto the cage floor in front of her.
A wet, slithering mass spilled out. Grey-pink ropes, glistening sacs, jagged bits of bone and scale. The smell hit her like a physical blow. It was a dense, rancid sweetness, undercut with the metallic tang of blood. Fish guts. Heads with milky, staring eyes. Entrails coiled in on themselves.
Her stomach clenched. A thin bile rose in her throat.
“You will clean your kennel,” Thornton said. He raised the camera, pressed a button. A tiny red light glowed. “With your mouth. Lick it up. Every bit. You will show me you’re grateful for your meal.”
She stared at the mess. A fly landed on a gelatinous eye. Buzzed. Her own eyes stung. Not from tears. From the smell.
This was the test. Not the sun. Not the cage. This.
She swallowed the dry knot in her throat. She lowered her head. Eyes down. She focused on a single, slick piece of intestine.
She extended her tongue. It felt like a foreign object. She touched the cold, slippery surface.
The taste exploded. Briny, putrid, overwhelmingly foul. Her gorge rose. She fought it down. She closed her lips around the piece, pulled it into her mouth. The texture was unspeakable. Rubbery, yet it burst between her teeth.
She chewed. Once. Twice. Swallowed. It went down like a stone.
The camera whirred softly.
“Good,” Thornton murmured. “Now the rest. Don’t stop.”
She moved her head to the side. Took a milky eye into her mouth. It popped. Fluid coated her tongue. She retched, a dry, convulsive heave. She kept chewing.
Piece by piece. Gristle. Membrane. Slimy sacs of unknown function. The smell filled her nose, her sinuses, her whole head. It was in her hair, on her skin. She was becoming the smell.
She heard the guard chuckle. A low, grunting sound.
She found a rhythm. A terrible, mechanical rhythm. See. Lick. Take. Chew. Swallow. The world narrowed to the patch of fouled floor in front of her face. Her mind went quiet. A blessed, empty quiet.
She was almost done. A few last stringy bits. Her body was trembling. A fine, constant vibration she couldn’t control. From exhaustion, from revulsion, from the deep, sub-zero chill the act had sent through her core.
The trembling made her jaw chatter. Her teeth clicked together.
“Stop.”
She froze. A strand of gray connective tissue hung from her lip.
Thornton lowered the camera. The red light went out. “You’re trembling,” he said. His voice was calm. Ice in a glass. “Is my gift not to your liking?”
“No, Sir. I mean, yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” The words were garbled by the filth in her mouth.
“You’re ungrateful. A trembling, ungrateful bitch.”
He reached into his breast pocket. Pulled out a cigar. A silver cutter. He snipped the end. Put the cigar between his teeth. He took a sleek lighter from his trousers. Flicked it. A steady, blue flame.
He lit the cigar. Puffed. The end glowed a fierce orange. The smell of rich tobacco cut through the fish stench.
He knelt at the cage entrance. He held the cigar out, regarding the glowing tip.
“Hold still,” he said.
She didn’t understand. She held still.
He moved fast. His free hand shot through the bars, clamped on her right thigh, high up, near the hip. His grip was iron. It pinned her.
He brought the glowing tip of the cigar to her skin.
It hissed.
The pain was absolute. Concentrated. A tiny, white-hot sun pressed into her flesh. It stole her breath. Her eyes flew wide. A sound escaped her, a choked animal whine. The smell of burning skin, her skin, mixed with the cigar smoke.
He held it there. Counted. One. Two. Three.
He pulled it away.
The agony didn’t leave. It bloomed. A radiant, throbbing star on her thigh. She looked down. A perfect, circular burn. The skin was blackened at the edges, waxy and red in the center. Blistering already.
Tears finally came. Silent, hot tracks through the grime on her face.
Thornton put the cigar back in his mouth. He stood. He looked at the guard. “Get the antiseptic. The cheap stuff. The one that stings.”
He looked back at her. His eyes were no longer in shadow. The sunset had faded to dusk. His eyes were black, flat. Like the deep water beyond the reef.
“That’s a mark,” he said softly, almost kindly. “My mark. To remind you of the cost of weakness. To remind you what you are.”
He blew a smoke ring. It drifted through the bars, wrapped around her face.
“Sleep well,” he whispered. “Tomorrow, the real training begins. Tomorrow, you learn about the walls.”
He turned. Walked away with the guard. The cage door was left open.
She sat in the fouled cage, the new burn screaming on her thigh, the taste of garbage and ashes in her mouth. The tropical night fell quickly, a blanket of deep blue and the sudden, deafening roar of insects.
She didn’t move toward the open door.
She just sat. And waited. For the antiseptic that would sting. For the walls he had promised.