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Chapter Three
Branson
Weeks pass and I’m left in the cage. Bud comes in periodically to throw water and minimal food in with me and I soon stop asking questions. Even when Jane comes to do a new project, leaving me here the entire time, I don’t ask. I say nothing. I don't even want to know anymore.
Some days I pray she drags me out and puts me on the table.
After weeks in the cage, I hear Jane’s voice down the gallery corridor. Her voice sounds pleasant and light and I frown, wondering who she is talking to. She never talks to Bud that way, much less her subjects, much less me.
A moment later, the light turns on and I look over to see Jane followed by a small girl carrying a teddy bear. The girl’s no more than ten or so. My face pales and bile rises up in my throat. Oh god, she’s using children again.
The little girl has a plain face with stringy blonde hair framing it. She's honestly a bit homely looking with slightly sunken cheeks and pale skin. Her eyes, though, are bright and green, beautiful and wide. She looks around the room with curiosity, but not fear.
“Here we are, sweetie! This is Mama’s workshop!”
Mama?
“But my Mama…” The girl starts to say but is interrupted by Jane violently grabbing her face.
“We talked about this,” Jane says with an edge to her voice, “I am your mama. And you’re my little Teddy.”
Her face transforms again, and she smiles as she kisses the little girl's head. Flashbacks of my own introduction to Jane’s world whirl through my mind.
Before I can react further, Bud enters the room with a box in his arms. Inside are some blankets and a few children’s toys, which he tosses into the second cage. The small girl doesn’t object as she is led over to it and locked inside. Jane coos at the girl and praises her for doing as she was told before leaving us and locking the door behind her.
The little girl sits in a cage the same size as my own. Since she is so small, it almost seems roomy compared to mine, which barely fits my growing body. In the last year I have grown a lot—which always seems to anger Jane. The little girl wraps her tiny hands around the bars and looks over at me, her bright eyes shining.
“Hello,” she says, “I’m Amelia, but you can call me Teddy. Who are you?”
???
It takes me a few hours, but I do manage to get most of Amelia’s story from her. It seems like she has a similar tale to my own, though I am fairly sure I was an accidental pick up, whereas it sounds like Amelia was intentional. Who knows what Jane has in mind for this girl? Perhaps a new protege, since I was such a failure to her. I was right, she’s almost eleven, but so small and runty she looks much younger.
“I was begging out front of the subway, like usual, while Mama took care of one of her friends in the field. She does that a lot,” Amelia tells me proudly, “Mama is so good at taking care of people!”
I don’t comment. Hell, I have no place to say anything. My own mother was a whore too.
“Mama Jane came up to me and asked if I was hungry and when I said yes, she took me for ice cream! Have you had ice cream, Branson? It was sooo good. When we were done, we found my mama and then, we were both in her van. Mama slept the whole way though.”
After this, I hold up my hand, indicating for her to stop.
“I get it, Amelia, but did Jane say why you were here?” The small face frowns slightly in thought before brightening.
“Oh, I remember! Jane said she needed help on some art. I like art. When I was still in school, my teacher said I was really good at it….”
My mind wanders as the girl continues talking. Jane needs help. With her art. I groan at the thought of this sweet little girl being made to participate in Jane's projects. Warped and twisted, like I was. What was worse, being screwed up for life or being on the table itself? Then again, I didn't suppose either of us held much promise for life even outside of this place. I know enough to know the children of whores aren’t among the fortunate. It's one of the reasons escape has never been very high on my 'to do' list. I may not know much of the outside world, but I don’t think there is a place in it for someone like me. Or that’s what I tell myself, anyway.
When I look over, I see Amelia scribbling with crayons, humming softly to herself. I swallow hard. I can't remember the last time I saw something so pure. Ever?
For the next few hours, I just sit and watch her. It’s been so long since I saw another person doing something so simple. Listening to her and watching her does something to me. I have seen dozens of people of all ages brought through those doors, and if I’m being honest, I didn't truly care. The only thing I didn’t like were the live ones, mostly because I had to listen to it. That and the children.
I close my eyes and let the small girl's song wash over me, so different from the screams I usually hear in this room.
Jane killed any bit of empathy I had left. Or so I had thought. It’s like Amelia’s presence, even from across the room, lightens my very soul. The corner of my mouth twitches, and I wonder if I’m smiling.
???
When Jane finally comes back, she coos more encouragement at Amelia but doesn’t open her cage right away. Instead, she turns to me.
