Thirteen feet away lies a plate of raw meat. You don’t know that number for sure, but you do know it for sure, because this has happened before and you learn from what is done to you. The ankle chain is seven feet long; you, belly cold against the concrete, taut down to the fingertips, would be six feet more. If you tried, very hard, your fingers might brush the plate.
Just enough to pull it closer. Maybe.
If you’re lucky today.
You swallow drool. You understand the game, and you do not want to play it.
She places the toe of her shoe against the rim, tap. Pinned-back ears tremble against your skull, your teeth feel too long and sharp for your mouth - it would take so little, so very little, to nudge it across that gap. Into reach. If you scrabbled for it, like an animal–
Sunprint on the floor quavers, shifts, blurry through thick glass. Overgrown plants, pale stems visible in the high window, moving in a wind you see but never hear. There is a garden out there, you assume. The chain doesn’t reach the window.
Thinking about other things never works for long. It’s veal, this time, giving flesh of little calves, bloody on their pale plate. The smell is- the smell is—
You are not an animal. You just want it very badly.
The woman says:
“Tell me you love me.”
