The Belly of Bygone Days

Touch of Feelings

Day 117

The clock on the wall had been taken down. The routine had been changed—continued to change—without any sort of warning or pattern. Time truly had no meaning now; it's only remnant the calendar in the common room; the only indication of its passing the slow but steady progress of Elias' mural. As the weeks went by, distinct images had begun to form amidst the earthy colours. Willowy trees cast dappled shadows across soft green grass. The skyline was dotted with rustic thatched rooves. A small girl ran through a patch of wildflowers, a kite trailing behind her. Elias said it was a painting of the village he'd grown up in. A village that had long since been destroyed by the enemy.

And so the days blended together, an endless cycle of sessions in the training rooms, observation rooms, the counsellor's office, the sleeping chambers. Doris hated all of it. She hated being here. She hated General Schultz and his scientists who treated them all like animals. Less than animals. Mere things to be poked and prodded and ordered about and observed. She hated the training sessions most of all. The shocks were no longer mere static but severe, prolonged jolts that sent an intense pain through her whole body. She hated them, but she had come to hate the sweets even more.

The only sessions she didn't hate were the ones that took place in the laboratory kitchens, when she was allowed to work on her culinary experimentations. What had begun as a reluctant hobby, suggested by the counsellor and enforced by Schultz himself, had quickly become the one aspect of life here she genuinely enjoyed. It wasn't that her cooking was particularly good—at best, it could be described as an acquired taste—but her dishes were unique, and that was the point. When she was in the kitchen, she was the one in control. Well, as in control as one could be when under the constant supervision of one's handlers.

It was after one such session that Doris was returned to the common room.

"Everything, even herself, was now unbearable to her," Oliver recited by way of greeting, his face partly hidden behind the white cover of a book. "She wished that, taking wing like a bird, she could fly somewhere, far away to regions of purity, and there grow young again." He chuckled and lowered the book. "What an amusing passage. Don't you think that's amusing, Doris?"

"I... I guess," Doris said. She had only been half listening. "What book is that?"

"Madam Bovary. A delightfully fun little read."

Doris tried to smile for him, but her heart wasn't in it. He had changed. He was different now. Happier, but distant. Always smiling. Always content. Always exuding an incongruous sense of peace. She knew she ought to be happy for him, but she wasn't. Meaningful communication had slowly but surely been replaced with pleasant sounding platitudes. Where once there had been brotherly concern, there was now nothing but a hollow sense of optimism. Although they'd once been inseparable, there was now a wall between them. A wall painted with bright, happy pictures, but a wall all the same.

"Ah, hello there, Yakov," Oliver said calmly, his mouth curved into that seemingly permanent smile. That smile he used to reserve just for her. "Sleep well?"

Yakov crossed his arms and smirked. "Like a baby."

Even when Oliver frowned, it still somehow appeared as a smile. "Although it's a popular expression, 'slept like a baby' is actually a misnomer," he explained, as impersonal as a professor delivering a lecture. "For you see, babies—especially young babies—rarely ever sleep well. No, they writhe about in their cots and and scream all night long much to the vexation of their equally sleep-deprived parents. A more accurate expression, therefore, might be 'slept like a hibernating bear' or even 'slept like a koala up a gum tree.'" He smiled to himself, clearly pleased with this little speech, and settled back in his chair. "So how did you sleep, Yakov?"