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Colette.
She always comes and feeds me dinner on nights like this. Accompanied by a guard, she brings a bowl of some kind of gooey slop — bland oatmeal or watery grits. However, tonight she’s alone — and she doesn’t have a bowl, she carries a plate of bacon and chocolates.
“Hey,” she says, taking out my gag. “Don’t be alarmed.”
What the fuck?
She’s not supposed to talk to me. Normally she won’t even look me in the eyes. The only reason she’s allowed to feed me is so that I’ll have the strength to not pass out. Coming here by herself and serving me real food — and treats — is absolutely forbidden. I shut my eyes and look away. This is either a bad dream or a trap.
“It’s okay, Kate,” she says. “You won’t get in trouble. I promise.”
I shake my head. This isn’t happening. I’ve lost touch with reality.
“Open your eyes.”
I do. She holds out a piece of bacon. It smells like paradise.
“Eat.”
Fuck it. I may not get another chance. And if anyone gets in trouble, it should be Colette.
I bite off a piece and groan as the smoky, savory flavor awakens pleasure centers in my brain atrophied by months of hibernation.
Colette leans over and whispers in my ear, “Things are going to change, Kate. Stay strong.”
