Condemned

22 | Jael

My life on Brock's leash has been grimly elucidating.

Because of Sam, it's all a form of torture, but it's not quite what you'd think. Brock is actually better with animals than he is with people, so the pain is, for the most part, mental. Stuff I can't unsee. Opportunities that don't present themselves. Time that doesn't stop. And silence, like Brock and I live together in a vacuum. He is my master. I am his pet.

In chains, I'm dragged around from one tedious, gross, or gruesome task to the next, or I'm locked up when my presence is objectionable—anything involving Ishmael, or Ivy, or anyone who hates my guts, which seems like everyone these days. Probably even Sam. If my actions haven't turned her against me, their lies surely will...

And while she's undoubtedly being subjected to all kinds of abuse, I may as well be in another country.

Should I consider myself lucky? I'm still here. I suppose that's something. Although, every day, I wonder why Ishmael didn't kill me, and why this torture is so "slow."

Brock has his moments where the dog gets kicked or smacked or tugged to asphyxiation, but, other than that, I can trot along at his side on limbs that work. I haven't bled out or bitten the hand that feeds me. So, I'm surviving, like I'm a wolf and nothing more. This isn't a good life by any stretch of the imagination, but it's one an actual animal might learn to accept as long as food, shelter, and rest are still provided, "good dog" behavior keeps the thrashings at bay, and better memories fade.

I'm not anywhere near that point yet. After years of this low-level abuse and complete isolation, I'm sure it's possible to forget what it's like to be human. If it's a rule, I may be the exception, though. My last human experience was too intense. Too exhilarating. I can still taste her, smell her, feel her if I have a chance to concentrate.

I don't know if the memory of Sam is keeping me grounded or driving me insane, but it tends to surface, sometimes above the guilt and panic. And I'd follow it, wherever it takes me, even if it's away from the sleep I so desperately need.

For now, I'm trying to be smart about it. I have to be. I'm still sane enough to appreciate that. But, if I make any more mistakes or lose my grip on reality, I know where this journey will lead...

I grunt and roll over. To some other uncomfortable position in my cage. I choose my stomach, with my hips to the side, and place my head on my paws with a sigh that Brock won't hear.

Brock and I are being housed in a windowless room below the barn. He doesn't require much sleep, but when he goes down, it's deep and loud. His snoring sometimes loosens dirt from the floorboards above.

Brock is eighty-percent monster, but Prue couldn't completely eliminate his need to sleep. He takes a few short naps when it's slow and Ishmael can man the fort himself. He then goes on and off like a light. It's a gift I wish I had. I'm supposed to sleep when he sleeps. I need like twenty-four hours of safe and sound, uninterrupted rest right now, but I get about six hours broken into three blocks, which are far from solid.

Despite the noise and discomfort, it's the only thing I have to look forward to. It's my only escape. My only opportunity to do what I love. I'll eventually fall into uncharted depths—I can't help myself—but I do cling to the edges for as long as possible. I can't help that, either...

Sam goes to her knees on the shower floor and tilts her head into the light. Her hair, still a touch golden even in the running water, gets swept from her face. Her wide eyes capture my gaze.

She bites the corner of her lip around a slight, nervous smile, and then she inches closer to my waist. Her mouth drifts open.

My eyes drift there. I drift there.