Chapter 11
Peter’s woken from a dead sleep by a blaring alarm as his nervous system fires on many more cylinders than is strictly necessary. He flings himself out of bed, sticking to the low ceiling as he blinks sleep from his eyes. The door to his cell clangs open, he still jumps despite all the warnings, but it does not close. The woman, his manager, stares up at him. “Come down,” she says, “we need to talk.”
He lowers himself back to the bed and then stands, wary. There’s an incredible smell in the room, he’s realizing, and he sees that the woman is holding a tray with a hamburger and fries. He licks his lips. “Ma’am,” he greets, knowing better than not to use the honorifics. His thumb reaches up unconsciously to rub the nail on his pointer finger, which is only just barely growing back after being ripped out. He’d refused to address his manager and she’d snapped, sending him to the scientists, who were extra rough. There are always strict and incredibly unpleasant punishments, so he calls his manager Ma’am. She never perpetuates them herself , but she does watch, with a bitter, nearly pained expression. Peter hates seeing her like that, like she wishes it weren’t happening, like it’s his fault she has to watch some poor soul be tortured.
“This is for you,” his manager says, setting the tray on the ground. She fiddles with the remote always in her pocket and one of Peter’s arms wrenches over to the wall. He’s just in reach of the tray, but he doesn’t reach for it, fearing it’s some sort of trap. He stares at the burger and fries, steaming slightly in the chill of the cell. “I won’t remind you again,” the woman says, pushing the tray closer with the toe of her shoe. Peter grabs a single fry, still crisp, and stares at it. “What do you say?” The woman stares at Peter expectantly.
He takes a moment to formulate the words, his mouth suddenly dry. “Thank you,” he croaks, quickly adding, “Ma’am.”
The crowd of guards that constantly flanks her somehow procures a chair. She sits in front of him, watching him contemplate the fry. The guards retreat and the door slams shut. “You aren’t capable of eating the number of calories needed to sustain your development,” she says. “But this is an occasion. Don’t be ungrateful. Eat.” Peter dutifully brings the fry, which has long since gone cold, to his mouth and bites off a piece of it. Chewing is almost unfamiliar and the savory, salty dry feels like heaven. He starts to eat the rest, crouched at an awkward angle with one arm behind him and using the other to grab the food. The woman crosses her legs, staring into the corner of the cell as though it’s more interesting than Peter himself. “You will have a match soon. If you win,” she says, acting as though Peter isn’t hanging on her every word, “I will grant you one request.” She finally shifts her gaze, staring down at her nails, which are perfectly manicured baby pink almonds. Peter unwraps the burger, expecting at every moment for it to end, for the food to be snatched from him. For the next hell to begin. “Be sure,” she says, still inspecting her nails, “that it is a request I will grant. I would hate for my time to be wasted with something I will have to turn down.”
Peter swallows his hamburger hastily and nods. “Yes Ma’am.”
“Good,” she says, standing. The door to the cell reopens and guards stream in. They fold her chair back up and carry it out, but a few remain, probably to escort her to her next location. Peter’s half finished hamburger, the tray, and the fry container are taken from him by a guard. He watches them leave, crumpling the only piece of normalcy he’s had in months. The woman pauses in the doorframe, turning, but not enough that Peter can see her face. “I know you enjoy the more barbaric matches,” She says, her voice silky smooth, “but you’ll have to leave your opponent alive.”
Peter freezes at her words and doesn’t manage to come back to himself until she’s long gone. It’s the first time someone’s acknowledged what he’s done, and reality is a painful place to reside.