Chapter 2 - WHAT THEY CALLED CONTENT
Every evening around seven, Darren carried his phone upstairs.
That was the start of the show.
He would set the phone on the old dresser opposite the folding chair, angle it carefully, check the light, and make sure the attic window curtain was pinned just enough to let in a thin wash of evening glow. Then Marlene would come in behind him with that day’s supplies: a sealed feed bag, a syringe, paper towels, a bowl, sometimes a pill crushed into cloudy liquid. No insertion ever happened on camera. That was part of the illusion. They liked to present what came after as “care,” as if I were difficult and unstable and they were the burdened saints who had to manage me. But I knew spoiled food by smell, and I knew what sedation tasted like when it slid into the back of my throat and made my limbs slow and strange.
“Smile for them,” Marlene always said.
At first I fought. I begged. I tried to turn away. That only gave them more to enjoy. Darren filmed with the same concentration other men use while tuning an expensive car. He watched the reaction icons rise on his screen and smirked when my body shook or I gagged or doubled over protecting my stomach. Marlene loved reading the comments aloud in a mock-sympathetic voice. “Oh, look, they think you’re dramatic.” “This one says you finally look grateful.” “Another one wants to know if the baby’s kicking yet.” They treated every humiliating breath, every shiver, every attempt I made to steady myself as content for strangers.
The first time I vomited and saw streaks of blood, Marlene stepped back only long enough to keep her dress clean. Darren zoomed in. Then they both laughed—not loudly, not hysterically, but with the relaxed cruelty of people who had rehearsed their right to do this. I remember staring at the old wallpaper seam behind Darren’s shoulder and realizing something colder than fear: nobody inside that house was going to stop them. No husband. No mother-in-law. No relative downstairs pretending not to hear footsteps overhead. If I stayed alive, it would be because I stopped waiting to be rescued by decency.
May you like
That changed how I moved.
I began conserving energy. I stopped giving them tears they could use. I lowered my eyes when Marlene entered, not because I was broken, but because I needed her to believe I was. I listened for patterns. Darren always checked his screen before he checked me. Marlene always turned her back to the chair when packing up afterward. Neither of them ever looked up into the loose insulation seam above the far wall. I had no weapon, no ally, no access to the front door. But I had stillness, memory, and the ability to wait.
