Claret

Have you ever played that game where you try and find faces in the pattern of the damp plaster? I play it a lot.

I often lay awake watching the sunlight move across the ceiling, dappled by the dirty window glass. The cross of the window frame throws a long shadow on the concrete floor that distorts as the hours pass. It’s like a sundial to mark the hours, I’m lost when it’s too cloudy to see it.

You can still hear birds singing outside at sunset and sunrise. Beautiful.

I can’t make too much noise, none of us can. Some cry, muffled by gags. Some bang against the unforgiving steel racking, but they never last long. I just lie here with my arms outstretched, not wanting to dislodge the IV on the left or the spigot on the right. Not wanting to disturb the sores on my back. I can see the sores on the back of the girl above me. She doesn’t move much any more.

When the overseer passes through two or three times a day, he sprays us down with lukewarm antiseptic to wash off our waste. I don’t mind that. When I first arrived, before I lost so much weight, his eyes would linger on my curves. He’d play with my tits sometimes or finger me, sometimes he jerked off onto my feet. It hasn’t happened for a couple of weeks.

He’d talk sometimes. He was a slave, he said. A twenty first century slave. He did his best not to get noticed by his masters, to always do as he was told. I had hopes early on that he liked me. That he might unbuckle my restraints and if not let me go, then let me work here rather than die slowly. That was never on the cards.

I’m still here. The fact that I’m starving now, or that there are sores on my back, doesn’t matter to whoever needs my blood. The overseer says it’s a short, balding gangster that regularly pays good money for bags of my blood, and for the three other girls from my rack. He drinks us. He has good taste.

I don’t know why I’m telling you, you’re just a rat. I love it when you stand and watch me and wash your little face with your paws, just like tiny hands. I know there’s a chance I’ll die one night in between visits from the overseer. If there’s any meat left on my bones, you’ll enjoy it. I wonder, do rats have nests and families? Do they remember things? I think you could chew through these cuffs but it’s too late now. I can’t stand up anymore.

I dreamt a health inspector came and threatened to shut down this whole operation if they didn’t deal with the rodent issue. Then I dreamt they fed me while you were gone. It wasn’t much, just a few mouthfuls of milky sugar syrup stuff. The overseer stroked my matted hair, and then shaved it all off. He said I taste too good to waste in this place, and master wants me to be stored more carefully from now on.

I don’t know why my brain does this to me. I was at peace with dying, you know? But today I woke up crying. She’s gone, isn’t she? That girl underneath me? I can usually hear her snoring at night but it was way too quiet. See you tomorrow, anyway. I hope.

***

Don’t be scared. It’s just an air mattress, it hissed like a snake but it’s safe. Yes! The IV and spigots are gone. It feels wonderful just to be able to bend my arms and turn onto my side. I have this long line now. They can give me fluids and meds or take blood and I barely feel it. I hope you’re still there. I hope you’re okay.

The overseer said I was going to be okay, but it will take time. They have to build me up before I can even sit up, nevermind learn to walk again. I might not remember everything we’ve been through once they fix my memories but it’s okay. You’ll remember, won’t you?