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I watch through gritted teeth as Jane puts the finishing touches on her latest project. I learned a long time ago that if I stay quiet, she usually forgets I'm there and doesn't ask for my help. Sometimes, she'll still take me out of my cage to hold something in place for her. I'd rather be in the cage than have to see any of her ‘art’ up close anymore. It isn’t the blood that bothers me. At least not really, not anymore. In fact, the biology of it all, how sudden death is when blood is removed, fascinates me. It’s Jane that I don’t want to get close to.
Not that she’s a repulsive monster—at least, not to look at. The monster that lives in Jane is subtle; though, if you look into her eyes, you’ll see it. Her hair is usually pulled back into a knot on her head, revealing the sharp lines of her face, the black pits of her eyes. I’m about as tall as her now, but she’s still bigger than me. I suppose she eats a bit better than I do.
My shoulders press hard against the rails, leaving deep indents in my back. I do my best to keep my breath even, but it's hard to breathe naturally when the air is saturated with the thick smell of blood and organs.
It's a funny thing, the smell of inside someone. Not funny like ha-ha, but interesting in that it’s unique. Unless they’ve experienced it, you couldn’t describe it to someone else. I’ve had my fair share of experience in the last almost ten years since I was taken by accident along with my mother, who Jane tells me was a worthless whore. Every so often, when Jane walks me through the gallery, I wonder which pieces are of her. But I've never asked. I don't actually want to know.
It has been two days since she started this one and I am grateful that it's almost over. My body is aching and cold from being in the cage, and I can feel a dull ache pounding behind my eyes. Nothing I’m not used to.
I tried to kill myself once a couple of years ago, but with how closely I’m watched, it’s hard to find the time or tools to do it properly. When I was caught, I can honestly say that Jane taught me that I can in fact feel pain still. I haven’t tried it since. The scars on the soles of my feet will forever be testament to my failure to even end my own life.
“Well, precious, I think we're almost done here!” Jane sings as she moves away from the table. “Would you like to see Mama’s wonderful new creation?”
“Yes,” I respond quietly through my teeth, as though there were ever a choice. Another thing I learned a long time ago was this question is not rhetorical and that saying no has dire consequences.
Jane claps her hands happily as though surprised. “Oh goody! I think you'll really like this one!”
I open my eyes at the sound of the lock opening and stand, taking a moment to orient myself after the days of sitting cramped in the four-by-four box. I haven’t grown all that much, but enough that it’s a lot more cramped in there than when I was younger.
I stand on weak and shaky legs, pausing a moment while the blackness dots my vision. I only ever get water when I’m in the cage, no food. It’s probably a good thing there’s nothing in my stomach to vomit by the time I’m forced to see the end results. It’s not so much the gore that makes me sick as much as seeing the before and after of the person that was brought in. They never look the same when Jane is done with them.
Ignoring my obvious discomfort, Jane ushers me towards her finished project. I look and see this isn’t as bad as some, although the fact that I think so is probably a testament to how fucked up I am.
On a platter sits two severed arms. Barbed wire wraps around them, holding them in place. A heart sits inside the hands which are brought together. The overall effect makes it look as though they are offering the organ. My nose tickles with the smell of the stuff she uses for preservation. I’ve learned about a lot of different chemicals that can do it, but I’ve never been able to figure out which ones Jane uses.
“Isn’t it amazing!” Jane squeals beside me. “I call this one, ‘Offer to God’.”
I do my best not to grimace and nod politely.
“Well, I’d best get you back now,” she chirps, leading me out of the workroom. This next part is one of my least favorites: walking through the gallery. As always, I do my best to keep my head down and not focus on the varying older projects. The air is thick with the smell of old blood. A rotten coppery smell that you can taste in the back of your throat and on your tongue.
A few hours later, I’m back in my ‘room’ with a bowl of slop sitting in front of me. Jane claims it’s porridge, but I’ve always been doubtful. At least she waits a few hours between the unveiling and offering me food. I couldn’t stomach this crap immediately after seeing people’s bodies twisted and morphed into her insane art projects. It took me a long time to realize that what she does isn’t normal.
I’ve been spending less and less time here, it seems. It used to be that she would do a project and then there would be weeks between. Now, I am barely in my room for a few days before being pulled out again and put into the cage. I probably spend about fifty percent of my time starving in the cage now.
When I’m in my room, I either sit and do nothing or I read.
Fortunately, Jane taught me to read before she began to resent me, and even as a child, I was reading far above my age. A few years ago, Jane gave me some books on anatomy and biology she said she didn’t need any more and since then I’ve almost memorized most of them. A few of them have Jane’s name written inside and I assume they were from when she was going to be a doctor. My favorite is a medical encyclopedia. I have the letter T. I know a lot of things that start with T.
T. Tuberculosis. Transverse myelitis. Tendon. Tibia.
On the bad days, this is what runs through my mind.
For ten years I have lived like this. Well, that isn’t true. The first few years I was treated as her child or perhaps a beloved pet, but as I’ve gotten older, Jane’s treatment of me has changed drastically. The only way I can really tell how long I’ve been here is by the amount of times I've heard Christmas songs drifting from upstairs. Nine times. Not once have I seen a tree, presents, turkey… Things which I have only vague memories from my youth. Even when I was a kid, I don’t remember doing that stuff with Jane. I wonder if I ever got Christmas with my real mom?
My time is split between a basement room—a closet really—and the cage. I haven’t seen outside or smelled fresh air since I’ve been here, and the only people I see, who don't die within days of me meeting them, are Jane and Bud. Bud helps Jane with getting all of her victims and helps her run some kind of antique shop, but they don’t tell me much about that.
I don’t know if I will ever really know why she spared me all those years ago. I can’t find it in myself to be grateful.
As a child I did what I could to try to please her. I guess I’m fifteen or sixteen now, and I don’t consider myself a child any longer. Not after the things I’ve seen and done since I’ve been here. Whenever I’m in my room, I’m grateful to be away from the workshop, but at the same time, being alone for so long makes me think too much. I sleep as much as possible, though the nightmares don’t let me stay that way for long.
Temporal lobe. Tendonitis. Tertoid.
