Cascade Observatory
by E. J. Bullin
Copyright© 2026 by E. J. Bullin
Fiction Story: Sage Holloway wanted to be seen. As an artist, she'd performed her whole life. When a zoo offered her a year in a naturalistic human exhibit, stripped of clothes and pretense, she said yes. 167 days later, when the outside world finally came to free her, she refused to leave. The Cascade Observatory is a haunting meditation on freedom, captivity, and what it means to become an animal.
June 1st. One year ago today, I walked into this cage. One year ago today, I stopped being Sage Holloway, artist, friend, human being. One year ago today, I started becoming something else.
The rain tastes different on Sauvie Island. I noticed that the first day I came here, standing in the pear orchard with Rosa, looking out at the Columbia River. The rain tastes like metal and earth and something older—like the river knows things I don’t. Like it’s been waiting for me.
I met Rosa Delgado six years ago at the Oregon Zoo. She was a senior curator; I was a freelance illustrator doing a series on endangered species. We bonded over our shared exhaustion—her with the bureaucracy, me with the art world. We spent our breaks drinking terrible coffee and complaining about everything.
She was the only person who ever really saw me. The only person who looked at me and didn’t see a performer, a project, a problem. She saw Sage. Just Sage.
That’s why I asked her to be the one. The one who would visit me. The one who would see me. The one who would remind me I was still human.
She said yes. She always said yes. That’s why I loved her.
But loving someone isn’t always enough. Sometimes you have to let them go. Sometimes you have to let them become what they were always meant to be.
I didn’t know that then. I do now.
“The Orchard”
Setting: Sauvie Island, Columbia River. A former pear orchard. June. The pear trees are heavy with fruit. The river is grey and swollen with spring rains.
The Day Before – The Walk
June 1st. I woke up in a hotel room in Vancouver, Washington. The last hotel room I’d ever sleep in. Last night I’d wear clothes. The last time I’d be truly alone.
I remember everything about that morning. The way the cheap synthetic blanket felt against my skin. The way my breath fogged the window as I looked out at the Columbia River. The way my hands shook as I ate breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee—knowing it was the last time I’d eat with utensils, with a plate, with dignity.
Rosa was there. She’d driven me to the island, her old Subaru clunking along the bridge. She didn’t say much. Neither did I. We’d said everything we needed to say the night before, sitting on her porch in Southeast Portland, drinking cheap wine and watching the rain.
“You don’t have to do this,” she’d said.
“I know.”
“I’ll be there every week. I’ll make sure you’re okay.”
“I know.”
“I love you, Sage. I love you, and I’m scared.”
I took her hand. “I’m scared too. But I have to do this. I have to see if I can be something else. Something more.”
She didn’t understand. She thought I was running away. She was right, in a way. But I wasn’t running from her. I was running from myself.
The Day Before – The Goodbye
Dr. Hawthorne arrived at 8:00 AM. He was wearing his usual grey suit, carrying his tablet, radiating calm competence. “Ready, Sage?” he asked, and his voice was so gentle, so reassuring, that I almost believed him.
Rosa hugged me. It was a long, tight hug. I could feel her heart beating against my chest.
“Don’t let them break you,” she whispered.
“I won’t.”
“Promise me. Promise me you’ll fight.”
I pulled back and looked at her. Her eyes were wet. “I promise.”
She kissed my forehead. “I’ll be there. Every week. I’ll be there.”
Then she let me go.
I walked through the pear orchard for the last time. The grass was wet, soaking through the thin soles of my shoes. I could feel the cold in my bones. I thought about the tree in Forest Park—the one I’d painted obsessively for a year. I thought about how I’d never paint again. I thought about how I didn’t care.
Dr. Hawthorne led me to a small building—the administrative wing. Inside, the air was sterile, clinical. A woman I didn’t know was waiting for me. Her name was Sloane Bergstrom. She was blonde, athletic, with eyes the color of river stones. Her handshake was firm, professional, and cold.
“Welcome to the Cascade Observatory,” she said. “We’re going to take good care of you.”
I wanted to believe her. I needed to believe her.
The Day Before – The Intake
The intake room was small and white, like a doctor’s office. There was a table, a chair, and a camera in the corner, watching me.
Dr. Hawthorne explained the process: “We’ll need to conduct a standard intake procedure. Photographs, measurements, baseline observations. It’s purely clinical. I’ll be as quick and respectful as possible.”
I nodded. I was still in control. I was still the artist, the visionary, the collaborator.
Then he said, “Please remove your clothes.”
I’d been preparing for this. I’d been telling myself it would be fine. But when the moment came, my hands were shaking. I fumbled with the buttons of my jeans. I pulled my sweater over my head. I stood in my bra and underwear, my skin prickling with goosebumps.
“Everything, please, Sage,” Dr. Hawthorne said, his voice soft, patient.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my underwear and pushed them down. I stepped out of them. I was completely, utterly naked. I kept my eyes fixed on a point on the wall above his head. I didn’t want to see him looking at me.
“Turn around, please.”
I turned. I felt his gaze on my skin. It wasn’t sexual—it was worse. It was clinical, assessing, cataloging. I was an object to be measured. A specimen to be documented.
The camera clicked. Flash, flash, flash. Front. Profile. Back. Each click was a small death. Each click erased a little more of who I was.
“That’s sufficient,” Dr. Hawthorne said. “You can relax now.”
I couldn’t relax. I was naked in a room with three strangers, and I’d never felt more exposed in my life.
The Day Before – The Habitat
The service gate to the Glade hissed open, and I saw my home for the first time.
It was beautiful. I’ll give him that. It was staggeringly, heartbreakingly beautiful. A slice of temperate rainforest, tucked into the orchard’s slope. A crystal stream burbled over smooth stones. A meadow of soft grass and wildflowers spread out before me. Ancient, gnarled oaks offered dappled shade, their branches woven with baskets and rope swings. A sleeping platform nestled under the largest oak, piled with furs and linens. A natural pool, steam rising from its surface, sat in a sheltered hollow.
I stepped inside, and the grass was cold and wet under my bare feet. I walked slowly to the stream, crouched down, and trailed my fingers through the water. It was cold, clean, and alive.
Dr. Hawthorne stood at the gateway, watching me. “This is your home now, Sage. You have everything you need. Food will be provided twice daily. The stream is clean and drinkable. The viewing panels are one-way from the public side—you’ll never see an audience unless you choose to approach the educational interface screen.”
I looked around at my new world. I was completely nude, in a place of raw, pristine nature. I had never felt more exposed, or more completely myself.
“There’s one more thing,” Dr. Hawthorne said. “Rosa Delgado has been designated as your primary observer. She’ll be allowed to visit you weekly, with unrestricted interaction. She’ll be ... unclothed while inside the enclosure. We believe it’s important for the authenticity of the study.”
I felt a wave of relief. “Rosa’s going to see me?”
“Every week. She’ll be here. You won’t be alone.”
I smiled. It was the first real smile I’d felt in months.
“The First Week”
Setting: The Glade. June 1-7. Rain, cold, fog. The pear trees are heavy with fruit.
Day 1 – The Unveiling
I woke up in my fern nest, shivering. The rain had started during the night. It was a soft, persistent drizzle, the kind that Portland is famous for—the kind that soaks everything and never really stops.
I stood up, stretching my arms over my head. The air was cold on my bare skin. I could see my breath. My nipples were hard, my skin goosebumped. I’d never felt so exposed.
The gate hissed open, and Sloane entered. She was carrying a tray—oatmeal, sliced apples, and a cup of water. No utensils. No plate. She set it on a flat mossy stone and looked at me.
“Breakfast,” she said. “Eat.”
I approached the stone, suddenly self-conscious. I was naked, and she was fully dressed. The contrast was stark, humiliating. I knelt in the grass and ate the oatmeal with my fingers, the warm mush sliding down my throat. I wanted to be dignified about it. I wanted to be graceful. But I was hungry, and the food was hot, and I couldn’t help myself. I ate like a wild animal.
Sloane watched me. Her face was expressionless, but I could feel her gaze on my skin. I was being observed. Documented. Judged.
When I was finished, she picked up the tray. “The first visitors will arrive at 10:00 AM,” she said. “I expect you to be presentable. Bathe in the stream. Make yourself available for observation.”
Then she left. The gate hissed shut.
I sat in the rain, shivering, and realized what I’d agreed to.
Day 1 – The Visitors
At 10:00 AM, they arrived. I couldn’t see them through the one-way glass—only my own reflection, pale and dripping wet, staring back at me. But I could feel them. I could feel their eyes on my skin, a tangible pressure.
I walked to the center of the Glade, where the grass was softest, and sat with my legs crossed, my hands in my lap. I tried to look like I was meditating, like I was at peace. I tried to look like the artist I thought I was.
They were watching me. I knew it. I could feel it in the way my skin prickled, the way my nipples tightened, the way my heart raced. I was naked, completely naked, and they were watching.
A child’s voice, muffled through the glass: “Mommy, why is she naked?”
A woman’s voice, shushing: “She’s part of the exhibit, honey. She’s a human exhibit.”
A human exhibit. That’s what I am now. Not an artist. Not a woman. An exhibit.
I stared at my reflection in the glass and wondered who I’d become.
Day 4 – Rosa’s First Visit
The gate hissed open on Day 4, and I assumed it was Sloane with my food. But it wasn’t.
Rosa stepped into the Glade. She was naked, like me. Her body was familiar—I’d seen her at the gym, at the pool, in the changing room. But seeing her like this, in this context, was different.
She looked at me, and I looked at her. We stood there, two naked women in a cage, and neither of us spoke.
“Hey,” she finally said.
“Hey,” I said.
She stepped closer. “You okay?”
I laughed. It was a broken, brittle sound. “I don’t know. I think so. What do you think?”
She looked around the Glade—the stream, the trees, the glass walls. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Scary, but beautiful.”
I nodded. “I miss you. I miss coffee. I miss clothes.”
She laughed. “I miss you too. I brought you something.”
She pulled something from behind her back—a piece of charcoal, wrapped in a napkin. “I snuck it in. For drawing.”
I took it. The charcoal was cool in my hand. It was the first personal object I’d touched in days.
“Thank you,” I said. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” She hugged me. Her skin was warm against mine. “I’ll be here every week. Every week, Sage. I promise.”
Day 7 – The Routine
Rosa came every week, like clockwork. She’d arrive on Thursday morning, strip down at the service gate, and step into the Glade. She’d bring small things—charcoal, a bit of chocolate, a leaf from the tree in Forest Park. She’d sit with me by the stream, and we’d talk.
She told me about the outside world. About the zoo, the animals, the donors. About the rain. About the city. About everything I was missing.
I told her about the cage. About the itch, the cold, the shame. About the visitors, their eyes on my skin. About the slow erosion of myself.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” I said one Thursday. “I’m losing myself.”
She reached out and touched my face. “You’re still here,” she said. “You’re still Sage. I see you, Sage. I see you.”
She was the only one who did.
“The First Month”
Setting: The Glade. June-July. Rain, cold, fog. The pear trees are heavy with fruit.
Day 15 – The Itch
My body hair began growing back. It started as a small thing—a prickle on my legs, a roughness under my arms. But by Day 15, it was constant, maddening.
I couldn’t scratch. My fingernails were too short, and I was too proud to rub myself against the rocks like an animal. But the itch was relentless. It crawled under my skin like a living thing.
I asked Sloane for a razor when she brought my food. “Please,” I said. “I can’t stand it. Just let me shave.”
She looked at me with those flinty eyes. “No grooming,” she said. “Animals don’t shave.”
“I’m not an animal. I’m a woman.”
“You were a woman,” she said. “Now you’re an exhibit. There’s a difference.”
She left before I could argue.
Day 20 – Rosa’s Response
Rosa came on Day 20. She noticed me scratching the pink marks on my skin.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m itching. They won’t let me shave.”
She looked at my legs, my underarms. “It’ll grow back,” she said. “It’s natural.”
“I know. But I can’t stand it. I feel like an animal.”
She pulled me close. “You’re not an animal. You’re a woman. You’re beautiful. You’re whole. The hair doesn’t change that.”
I wanted to believe her. I didn’t.
Day 30 – The Expiration
I woke up on Day 30 expecting to be released. I was still shivering, still hungry, still tired—but I thought it was over. I thought I was going home.
Sloane entered the Glade, but she wasn’t carrying food. She was carrying Dr. Hawthorne.
“Sage,” he said, his voice soft, “I need to inform you that your stay has been extended by an additional ninety days, pursuant to Section 4, Subsection B of your contract.”
I stared at him. “What are you talking about? I signed for one year.”
“The contract includes an indefinite duration clause,” he said. “We can extend your stay as long as we deem it beneficial to the study.”
“That’s not what I agreed to!”
“You agreed to cooperate fully with the study’s requirements. This is a requirement.”
I screamed. I lunged at him, trying to claw his face, to hurt him, to stop him. Sloane grabbed me, her grip strong and cold.
“You can’t do this,” I screamed. “You can’t keep me here!”
“Don’t resist, Sage,” Sloane said. “It’s easier if you don’t resist.”
They left me in the Glade, alone, broken. I screamed until my voice gave out, then I collapsed in the grass and wept.
Day 30 – Rosa’s Vow
Rosa came that Thursday, as promised. She found me in the fern nest, curled up, hollow.
“I can’t do this,” I said. “I can’t stay here. They’re keeping me here.”
She held me. “I know. I know.”
“Get me out. Please. Please get me out.”
She looked at me, her eyes wet. “I will,” she said. “I’ll find a way. I promise.”
She didn’t know how. But she promised. And I believed her.
“The Visitors”
Setting: The Glade. July-August. The pear trees are ripening. The visitors are constant.
Day 40 – The Families
School groups started coming. Children, mostly—sixth graders, ninth graders, groups of teenagers in matching t-shirts. They pressed their faces to the glass and pointed at me.
“Is she real?” a girl asked.
“She is,” her teacher said. “Sage Holloway is a volunteer for a sociological study. She’s chosen to live this way.”
I wasn’t a volunteer anymore. I was a prisoner. But I couldn’t explain that to them. I couldn’t do anything but sit in the grass and try to pretend I wasn’t there.
One boy—maybe twelve—pressed his palm to the glass. “Can she hear us?”
“Only if we speak to her,” the teacher said.
The boy looked at me. “Are you cold?” he shouted through the glass.
I could hear him. I looked up, meeting his eyes through the glass. I nodded. Yes, I’m cold. Yes, I’m tired. Yes, I’m scared.
He smiled at me. “You’re brave,” he said. “I could never do what you’re doing.”
I didn’t feel brave. I felt pathetic.
Day 50 – Rosa’s Observation
Rosa came on Day 50. She’d arranged to observe me from the visitor side—the one-way glass that showed her my world.
She described it to me afterward: “It’s strange,” she said. “Watching you from outside. You look so small. So fragile.”
“I am fragile,” I said.
She touched my face. “No, you’re not. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re surviving.”
“I’m not surviving. I’m just existing.”
“That’s surviving, Sage. That’s what surviving looks like.”
Day 60 – The Lonely Men
They came alone, mostly. Men in their fifties, wearing raincoats and sensible shoes. They’d stand at the glass for hours, watching me. They didn’t speak. They didn’t take photos. They just watched.
I could feel their eyes on my skin. On my breasts. On the soft curve of my stomach. On the space between my thighs. It was a museum exhibit for their private fantasies.
One of them, a man with a kind face and sad eyes, stood at the glass for four hours. I sat in the grass and tried to ignore him. But I could feel him.
At one point, I looked up and met his eyes. He didn’t look away. He smiled, almost imperceptibly. Then he pressed his palm to the glass.
I pressed my palm to the glass on my side. We held them there, palm to palm, separated by an inch of glass.
It was the first human contact I’d had in weeks. It was also the most humiliating.
“The Training”
Setting: The Glade and the training room. August-September. The pear trees are heavy with fruit.
Day 61 – Sloane’s Whistle
Sloane came to the Glade on Day 61 with a whistle and a clicker. “We’re going to start training,” she said. “It’s part of your enrichment.”
“I’m not an animal,” I said.
“You’re an exhibit. There’s a difference.”
She whistled—a sharp, two-toned sound. “Follow me.”
I followed. I didn’t have a choice.
Day 61 – The Training Room
The training room was sterile, white, and cold. It had a rubber mat floor, a low platform, a hoop on a stand, and a large, colorful ball. It looked like a room designed for a chimpanzee.
“Sit,” Sloane said, pointing to a marked spot on the floor.
I hesitated. “I’m not a dog.”
“Don’t bark at me, Sage.” She said it the way you’d speak to a misbehaving pet. “Sit.”
I sat.
She clicked her clicker. “Good.” She threw me a dried fig. It landed in my lap.
I looked at the fig. It was sweet. I ate it.
Thus began my training.
Day 70 – The Touch Rewards
The training sequences were physical—touch, platform, hoop, jump. I learned them quickly. My body, already honed by months of living without furniture, was strong, flexible, and capable.
Sloane rewarded me with figs, mango, almonds. But sometimes, the reward was touch.
The first time she touched me, it was a pat on the head. “Good girl,” she said, her voice low. The warmth of her hand on my scalp sent a shock through my body.
The second time, it was a stroke down my spine. “Good girl,” she said again. I arched into her touch without thinking.
The third time, it was a firm palm on my hip. I felt a jolt of heat between my legs. My body was responding, even when my mind was screaming.
I was being conditioned. And it was working.
Day 80 – Rosa’s Reaction
Rosa came on Day 80. I told her about the training. About the touch rewards. About the way my body was responding.
“I feel like I’m betraying myself,” I said. “Like I’m becoming something I don’t want to be.”
She held me. “You’re not betraying yourself. You’re surviving. Your body is doing what it needs to do to survive.”
“But I’m getting off on it. On the humiliation. On the control.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “That’s not a shame, Sage. That’s your body trying to find pleasure in a situation where there’s no pleasure. It’s adapting. It’s surviving.”
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