Page 29 of Trust

There’s no change of clothes, only the robe I wore yesterday. It’s folded and draped over the screen next to that embarrassing toilet thing. All I have are my tattered leggings and my mom’s hoodie, crusted with dirt. It’s smudged and soaked, frayed where the thorn bush tore at it, reeking of sweat and panic.

I peel it off slowly, trying to stay composed, and hang it over the screen like it’s sacred, hoping it’ll dry clean and the dirt won’t cling to the memory. It’s supposed to remind me of my mom, not of the fucked-up mess I’m in right now.

The robe is clean and dry. Other than that, it doesn’t improve anything. My body’s heavy with exhaustion, and every time I close my eyes, I either see that bear, the railroad tracks, or the flash of headlights before the world went black.

I make it to the folding bed and curl up on the mattress, tugging the blanket up to my chin. The faint scent of detergent is oddly out of place. The light goes out, leaving me in eerie darkness. Of course, a red LED glimmers against the black. First, he saw me under the shower. Now he’s watched me strip off my hoodie with nothing underneath. I suppose privacy is a privilege, one I no longer possess. Funny how it worked out. I escaped because I refused to be controlled, refused to be caged, and now look at me. I’ve become exactly what I feared most: his pet.

I’m too tired to be angry. Too defeated to be scared. Tomorrow I can bite again, I guess. But right now, I need rest.

◆◆◆

I swing between burning up and shivering, over and over throughout the night, until I’m tangled in sweat-damp sheets, scratching at skin that won’t stop itching. Every inch of me hurts, and I’m caught in a mental freefall that seems to last forever until sleep finally drags me under. The dreams that follow give me no relief, though. They come fast and jagged, stitching together every disaster that’s brought me here. A greatest-hits reel of everything I couldn’t outrun.

Covered in sweat, I wake with a gasp. My mouth tastes like old dust. I’m hollowed out. My limbs are sore, my tattered soles throbbing beneath the bandages. But the worst part is how drained I am. Like the night stripped everything away and offered nothing in return, not even a dream worth holding on to.

A harsh buzz sounds before the sterile light floods the shed.

I blink up at it, disoriented. My first instinct is to pull the blanket tighter around myself. I don’t move otherwise. I sit there, curled up, watching the exit and waiting.

The seconds stack up and nothing happens. Then the light clicks off again and leaves me staring into the half-darkness. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or worried.

I stay motionless for a moment longer as my pulse slows to normal. Once I’m sure no one is coming in, I force myself to get up. Moving at a snail’s pace, I limp toward the sink. The cold water pricks at my fingers. Does that boiler work at all? Washing what I can with what’s there, I inspect the small wounds that lie open. They’ve already started to heal, which explains all the itching. I rake my fingers through my hair and pick out a leaf I must have missed yesterday. This time, my duffel doesn’t magically cough up fresh clothes. Another privilege lost.

I shuffle back to the bed, easing myself onto it with a sigh that doesn’t belong to someone my age. My eyes drift from the chair to the ceiling and back to the chair. Is that what he meant? As soon as the lights turn on, I’m supposed to move. I’m supposed to sit like a dog waiting for its treat? And if I don’t? Then my prison stays locked, food and fresh air are withheld, and I’m left all alone?

I play along because I have to. It’s the only way to find out. The urge to fight just for the sake of it can’t control me right now. I need to understand how this place works before I waste what little fire I have left.

WHAT THE HELL?

Chris

Propped against the shed, I track her on my screen. All morning, she’s barely moved. She hasn’t tried to get out or shown any sign of aggression, which only makes me more certain she’s up to no good.

On the bed, knees pulled up, she picks at her fingers. When the light switches on, her whole frame stiffens before she finally swings her legs over the edge and shuffles to the chair.

Only one failed attempt. Quick study.

Out of curiosity, I let the seconds drip by until her knee starts bouncing. Not a single curse escapes her. She stays seated.

I pocket the phone and circle to the front.

She doesn’t flinch when I enter, doesn’t say anything either.

I’m not trying to make this harder than it already is, but it’s stale in here, so the door stays open. It’s a risk, but necessary. If she bolts again, the consequences will be worse. I bet she thinks about running the second I move behind her and give her a clear line to the exit. Not because she thinks she’d succeed. Just out of spite.

She doesn’t, though. There’s no resistance when I take her hands to secure them to the chair. The tension in her fingers tells me what it costs her to let me.

Adjusting to the restraints, she draws in a long breath, obviously struggling to contain herself and stay calm. But again, there’s no protest.

The first aid kit is right outside. I get it, crouch, and unwind the bandages. The skin underneath is red and abraded, but better. The swelling has subsided. No evidence of inflammation. That’s a good sign.

Her eyes follow my hands as I repeat yesterday’s treatment. I know that expression. Not from here. From overseas. People trying to figure out the rules, what triggers punishment, and what earns kindness.

“You’re not gonna be able to walk properly for the next few days.” It isn’t meant as a warning. It’s the truth.

All I get in return is a barely perceptible nod, nothing more.

I slowly unwrap the sandwich I brought with me, the crinkle of paper loud in the stillness, and hold it to her mouth. Without hesitation, she bites, chews, swallows—again and again.