Chaptert 21: Electro Massage

I wake up slowly. It’s the first time I’ve been able to sleep so deeply in a while. I’d like to stay in bed a little longer, but my hidden alarm chimes in my ear. The bed slowly heats, growing unbearable until I’m forced onto my feet to keep from sweating. The heat crawls up my spine like a living thing, a reminder that even sleep isn’t truly mine. I was wondering what updates Brockhoist had added to my room a few days back. I suppose he probably doesn’t want me wasting the day away. But what else is there to do? What else am I allowed to do?

I was dressed in my sleep. My matching grey tee and short shorts hug my body, which is hairless once more and free from all the torture I suffered through those last few, grueling sessions. I’m revitalized, like I’ve been raised from the dead. The absence of pain is almost worse than its presence—it means they’ve reset me, prepared me for something new. For the first time in days, I’m excited to face what lies ahead. Maybe “excited” isn’t the best word, but I don’t dread it as much as I have been. The feeling sits wrong in my chest, like I’m betraying myself by not being more afraid.

My morning routine moves quickly. The habit is becoming familiar again. I like it. I like having some semblance of control. Even if it’s only for half my waking hours. Even if it’s an illusion.

What I don’t like is Brockhoist’s habit of constantly being downstairs. He’s been waiting for me in the kitchen again, cooking breakfast while he spies through the cameras. I sulk at the sight of him by the stove, and slide into the same breakfast chair I always sit in. My stomach twists with something between hunger and nausea.
“How do you feel today, Emma?” Brockhoist asks without turning to look at me.
I shrug, because I know he can see it. “Better.”

“Better? You should be feeling incredible compared to these last several days.”

I swallow, and my throat no longer burns. The absence of pain feels like a trick. “Thank you for replicating me.”

Brockhoist scoffs. “Don’t thank me; I’m only doing my job.”

“I still appreciate it.”

Brockhoist stops, slapping his palms against the counter. “Is that attitude?”

“It’s genuine,” I retort. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a little sass in my tone.

He turns, glaring at me from behind his polished lenses. His eyes, still framed in eyeliner like always, narrow at me. “You’re getting a little too comfortable around me.”

“I like you,” I say, trying not to make it too obvious I’m teasing him.

“No you don’t. You hate me. I can see it in your eyes. And you have every reason to. I could tell you to strip naked and masturbate on the hot stove if I wanted to. If you denied me, I could have you raped and mutilated. I could turn you into a limbless fucktoy before sundown.”

“No you can’t,” I snap back.

Brockhoist stills, his eyes widening with surprise. A twinge of pride overtakes me, though I know it will only earn me a punishment. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and exhilaration. I’ve never been so bold before. Never so daring. I like it. I like being rebellious, I think. I just needed to be careful about picking the right battles. He is right about one thing, he does have a lot of power over me. But he can’t ship me off to be mutilated. Not without Wentzler’s approval. And he’d never send me away. I’m his little orchid. The thought should comfort me, but it only makes my skin crawl.

I hold my breath, waiting for the doctor to come over and slap me or something. But instead, to both my horror and my confusion, Brockhoist grins.
“You have your mother’s tongue, that’s for certain.” The doctor turns his back to me again as he plates my meal. He brings it over, then settles into the chair beside me with a cup of steaming coffee. “But don’t start getting full of yourself like your father. Remember there is a hierarchy here.”

“Aren’t you going to punish me?” I ask. I hesitate to pick up my fork, worried he’s going to stab me with it. Or maybe he poisoned my food somehow. My fingers tremble slightly as they hover over the utensil.
Brockhoist shrugs. “Punishment isn’t my forte. I like to teach. And you’ll suffer your fair share of pain today with your mistress. So instead of a beating, you’re going to put your maid skills to work. I expect this entire kitchen to be spotless by the end of the day. All of it, please.”

My heart sinks, but in a different way than usual. I don’t have that gut-punch fear that gives me shivers and leaves me dizzy. It’s just disappointment, that’s all. The emotion confuses me—why should I be disappointed to avoid pain? I was hoping to explore the study before whatever torture was to come. I guess that’s what I get for poking the bear.
“Yes, Doctor,” I grumble under my breath.

I finish my breakfast quickly. There isn’t much to eat. Brockhoist gave me only one egg, one slice of toast, and a few cold berries like I’m a bear who had to forage for food. I’m still hungry when I finish, my stomach gnawing at itself, but Brockhoist tells me just to drink a glass of water. My petite figure takes priority over my empty stomach. The water sits heavy and cold inside me, doing nothing to fill the hollow ache. After I’m ordered to wash my dishes, Brockhoist’s mug included, I’m directed to look under the kitchen sink, where my cleaning supplies have already been laid out for me.
All the spray bottles and rags are color coordinated. A laminated sheet glued to the inside of the cabinet door lists out everything I need for a complete deep clean of the room, and where to find the bigger tools like a duster, a broom, and a mop.
“There’s cabinets like that in every room,” Brockhoist explains. Again, he doesn’t look at me while he talks. “You need to get used to cleaning after yourself, even if you are the only subject living here at the moment. It’s good hygiene.”

I may not remember much, but I at least remember how to clean. I think the knowledge came back around the time I remembered how to shower. The fundamentals are all the same, after all, and the color coordination helped move things along. I start with the counters, since the stove is still warm, then polish the wooden cabinets, then the table and chairs. As boring and exhausting as the activity is, it gives me a good chance to snoop around the kitchen. I find all sorts of dishes and ingredients. Nothing in the cabinets is pre-made. No snacks besides the fruits and vegetables in the fridge. There is a drawer by the front entrance with a folder inside. My name and subject number brand its cover, along with the words “meal plan.” I throw a quick peek inside before Brockhoist snaps at me to keep working. From what I saw, I’m only allowed two meals per day, since my torture sessions always overlapped lunch. My meals don’t have timestamps on them—not traditional ones. Instead of breakfast at 8 AM, I am given breakfast “thirty minutes post-wakeup time.” Dinner is planned out, but the time stamp is blank. Before the doctor makes me close the book, I catch a glimpse of a disclaimer stamped onto the top of every page that states my dinner times depend heavily on the intensity of my torture.
“You’re wasting time,” Brockhoist snaps, even though I had walked away from the book already. “Your mistress will be here shortly. You’d be smart to empty your bladder beforehand, or it might empty itself on the table.”