Page 16 of Brox Boar

After that, fog.

I got a tablet on my tongue. Maybe two. Bitter and chalky. A thick plastic cup pressed to my lips, the water sloshing against my teeth. I swallowed to stop myself from choking.

“You’ll feel better soon,” someone had said.

I had tried to spit the next pill at their face. A rough palm clamped my jaw, fingers digging into my cheeks, forcing my mouth open again. Another tablet shoved in. I had no choice, no free hand to claw.

Now, I’m here.

I wiggle my toes inside the cuffs around my ankles. The leather rubs skin raw. I should care. I don’t. The ants under my skin don’t care either. They dance, thrilled with this whole situation.

The door opens with a metal shriek.

Light from the corridor spears into the room, hard and white. It stings my eyes. I squint and lift my arms, chains rattling.

It’s the assistant. He squeezes his bulk through the doorway and closes the door behind him with a thud.

No Morales. Just him.

He has a plastic tray in his hands. On it: a glass, two plastic cups with lids, a plate with something beige and lumped, and a small bottle I recognize immediately. Vodka.

“Oh,” I purr. “Room service.”

He doesn’t respond. He never does. He wears a dark expression, his cheeks flushed from the effort of moving around in a body that big.

He comes over to the shelf and sets the tray on my stomach. The weight presses air from my lungs. I grunt and laugh at the same time.

He lifts the tray again, slides it to rest near my knees instead. The chain between my ankles rattles.

I sniff the air above the plate. Mashed potatoes? Mystery protein? Something nutritional but joyless. My stomach flips, unsettled. Another part of me perks up at the smell, though. Something feral, practical. This body still wants fuel.

He opens one small plastic cup, shakes two tablets into his palm, then taps them against my lips.

“No,” I say.

He keeps his hand there.

“I said no.” I twist my head sideways.

His fingers grab my jaw, same as before. His thumb is under my chin, the other fingers pressed into my cheeks. My mouth pops open. He drops the tablets in. They land on my tongue, bitter already.

I could try to spit them back at him. I consider it. Then I remember the feeling after the last few. I remember flying. I close my mouth and swallow.

He tips the plastic cup of water against my lips next. I gulp it down, choking once, coughing, water spilling down my chin and neck. It feels good. Everything feels good, now. Even choking.

“Messy,” I tell him, water dripping onto my bare breasts. “You should work on your technique.”

He ignores me, reaches for the plate instead, scoops up a spoonful of beige and brings it toward my mouth.

“I can feed myself,” I protest.

He looks at my shackled hands, then at my face.

“Fine,” I huff. “Do your worst.”

He feeds me in steady little bites. Spoon, mouth, swallow, breathe. My throat works automatically. I don’t want it, but my body keeps accepting, following the rhythm. The ants like it. More fuel for them.

I let my head loll back against the wall and open my mouth whenever the spoon approaches. Good girl. Good pet. That thought should burn. Somehow it just makes me giggle again.