Chapter 2

Murky broth splattered across the carpet, splashing onto Martha's blouse and lap.

Her body went rigid. For a split second, her eyes flashed with raw fury.

I buried my face in my hands and let out a loud, pathetic sob. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Martha! My stomach has been cramping all day. I'm just... I'm just useless."

The mask snapped back into place.

"It's okay, sweetie," she cooed, reaching out to stroke my hair.

As her hand brushed my cheek, the metallic stench of blood on her skin practically choked me. "Better out than in."

The bedroom door violently slammed against the wall.

Uncle Thomas marched in, his boots thudding against the floorboards.

He shoved Martha aside and grabbed the armrests of my wheelchair. He stooped low, bringing his face level with my waist, then slowly angled his chin up to lock eyes with me.

His hair was greasy, hanging in strings over eyes that were bloodshot and erratic.

"You threw up the broth," Thomas whispered, his voice dangerously low. "Why?"

Before I could form an excuse, his hands clamped onto my right thigh.

His filthy, unclipped fingernails dug straight through my pants and into my thigh, pinching deep into the muscle with brutal force.

A blinding surge of pain spiked up my newly awakened nerves.

Every instinct screamed at me to kick, to jerk away from the pain. I bit down on the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, forcing my leg to stay limp and lifeless.

I burst into genuine, hysterical tears.

"Stop! You're making me bleed!" I wailed, thrashing my upper body while keeping my legs dead weight. "Look at the blood!"

Martha shrieked. She lunged forward, shoving Thomas back. Her hand cracked across his face in a vicious slap.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Martha snarled, shielding my legs with her own body. "If you bruise that tissue, if you ruin her perfect muscles, how the hell are you going to explain it to our daughter?"

Thomas immediately cowered. The terrifying edge vanished from his eyes, replaced by a pathetic guilt.

He muttered frantic apologies, backing away toward the door.

I kept sobbing into my palms, but underneath the performance, my blood turned to ice.

How will you explain it to our daughter?

What daughter? What were they raising? Or rather... what were they harvesting me for?

Hours later, they wheeled me out to the dining table.

Dinner was completely silent. Martha placed a fresh, steaming bowl of the same murky broth in front of me. She stood across the table, watching my every move. Neither of them touched their own food.

I picked up the spoon with trembling fingers. I pushed through the oily surface, stirring the bottom so it would cool faster. The spoon bumped against a solid lump.

I lifted it slightly above the surface.

It wasn't a bone. It was a chunk of un-melted skin and fatty tissue.

Etched into the pale, boiled flesh was a cluster of tiny, faded black stars.

A tattoo.

My lungs seized. I recognized those stars. They were identical to the tattoo on my younger sister Mia’s ankle.

I wasn't just sitting in their slaughterhouse. I was eating my sister’s remains.

A wave of nausea violently hit me, but I forced my throat to swallow dry air. I let the chunk of skin slip off the spoon and sink to the bottom of the bowl. I lifted the broth to my lips and took a sip.

Thomas suddenly leaned over the table, his face inches from mine.

"You always loved the meat with the gristle," he said, observing my jaw muscles as I swallowed. "Why are you only drinking the liquid today?"

I forced a childish pout, keeping my eyes wide and innocent. "My stomach is still cramping from earlier, I can only handle the liquid."

Thomas stared at me for three agonizing seconds. Then, his shoulders dropped. A bizarre, misty sheen of tears formed in his eyes.

"Good girl," he choked out, his voice thick with horrifying affection. "Just drink the broth. All the healing essence is in the liquid anyway."

Dinner ended. I claimed the fatigue was making me dizzy, and they wheeled me back into the bedroom.

The moment they shut the door, the illusion of safety shattered. I sat in the pitch-black room, staring at the sliver of moonlight creeping through the curtains. The pieces clicked into a terrifying puzzle.

The car crash that paralyzed me wasn't an accident. It was a calculated trap. The warnings in the wardrobe. Mia's tattoo in the soup.

They were waiting for my nerves to heal, waiting for the exact moment the meat was 'ripe' to butcher me. If I went to sleep tonight, I might never wake up. I had to get out.

I firmly gripped the armrests of the wheelchair and pushed myself up, testing my weight in the dark.

Right as I locked my knees and stood upright, a metallic click echoed through the room.

The deadbolt.

The doorknob turned, and the door swung inward.

Thomas stood in the doorway, a spare key gripped in his hand. The hallway light cast his face in deep, menacing shadows.

"Thought you said you were going to sleep?" he rasped.