“Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too.
They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.”
—Stephen King
(Thirteen years old)
“Mmhmm. Can you tell me more about that?” Katerina’s soft voice trickles to my ears. She scribbles something onto a notepad, then leans over the whimpering teenager strapped to her work table. “More specifically, about the feelings that stirred within you when your foster mother struck you?”
I let out a puff of air and shake my head. The girl is a couple years older than me. She has scraggly hair and, based on her answers so far, she was out on the streets for less than a year before winding up here. Really, she had it good. Should’ve stayed in her foster home—a roof overhead, food in her stomach, a bed to sleep on.
The girl’s responses are quiet, a tremble cracking her voice. I know the tone well. She’s past fighting, crying, and she’s latched onto the only shred of hope she has left—the realization that at least this fucked up interview buys her a little more time.
“You poor girl,” Katerina murmurs. “Such beautiful tears you cry. Thank you for trusting me with your story, sweet Jane. I promise to share it in its purest form.”
Closing my eyes, I try to block out the bright lights above my head and the thumping in my chest as I lean against the wall. I wish I didn’t have to listen to this shit day after day. I cringe with every sob; they ring in my mind as pleas that will never be answered. My fingers dig into the floor below me, my raw skin grating on the rough cement a welcome distraction.
A faint ting, ting drags my gaze to the large cage across the room.
The little girl, Sofia, gently taps a colorful bone on the iron bars as she paces slowly from one end of the cage to the other. It’s the same bone her mom had her color with oil crayons two months ago.
It’s become some kinda routine for her.
The first day she showed up and witnessed her mom skinning a new arrival, she’d sat in a ball, covered her eyes, and rocked back and forth. She still hasn’t made a peep. The second day, during an interview, she did the same. And the third. But the fourth day, she’d started this tapping thing with the bone. And she’s done it ever since.
I don’t get it.
I stare at her for a few moments, letting the ting, ting drown out the ‘interview’ happening beside us. Soon, she stares back. Her eyes are wide, but they’re not afraid.
After a while, the only sound in the room is that bone clicking against the iron. There’s no more whimpering, no more questions, no more responses. I glance at Katerina.
The interview is over.
Slowly, I turn my head back to Sofia. She’s still watching me, but she’s set down the bone. And, finally, I understand. That’s why she does it—she’s drowning out her mom’s voice, the crying, all of it.
She’s what, five? And she figured this place out a helluva lot quicker than I did.
The clank of a tray being set on metal draws my attention back to the workspace. The subject’s, Jane’s, long limbs droop lifelessly over the edge of the narrow table. My breaths quicken as Katerina lifts a scalpel from the tray. My lungs are tight, and I don’t realize I’m inching closer until the cold wall is no longer against my back.
No one makes a sound as Katerina makes her first cut.
It’s slow. Precise. Drawing the tiniest amount of blood.
She picks another spot, higher up on the arm, and takes her time sliding the blade across skin once more.
It’s not until I see it, the deep crimson dripping from the arm to the table, then eventually to the floor, that my lungs open and I can breathe again. I inhale sharply, taking the fresh scent of blood with me, and retreat back to the wall with a snarl.
Over the past 424 days of me being trapped in this cage—forced to listen to one person after the next suffer, then to Katerina’s sick murmurs in their ear—I’ve learned there’s only one thing that actually makes it stop. That shuts off the relentless pounding in my head, the guilt, the helplessness, the goddamn lights piercing my eyes.
It might be the needle that initially takes their lives, but the sight of crimson is the only thing that shuts Katerina up and keeps her occupied long enough to leave the others alone. Sometimes it buys us a week or more while she plays with her new project.
In this place, there is nothing more final than the spill of blood on that table.
At least until the room gets wiped clean and a new day begins, starting the process over again.
But for now, my head has a few blissful seconds to clear. My pulse goes quiet, and I don’t have to pretend. For just a moment, I don’t have to pretend it doesn’t get to me. Because in the silence, as long as drops of crimson flow, nothing can reach me.