The Zoo - Chapter 12

The days after Deb’s death unspooled without structure, as if time itself had collapsed into a flat, grey smear. Mortimer, who once paced and counted cycles, who once clung to his routine like a rope in a well, now lay motionless on the floor. Immediately following Deb’s death, he was brought right back to his original enclosure. He woke up almost like the entire event had been a dream. Yet, Deb was still gone, and his memories couldn’t be forgotten.

For a solid week, he cried every night. The caretakers left him more food and even delivered sweeter foods that used to be provided in moderation, almost like they were trying to apologize and make up for his loss. He didn’t touch any of it. Another difference was that there was always a caretaker among the watchers, a board in hand, their hand scribbling whenever they saw him so much as use the restroom.

Let the caretakers watch. Let them scribble their notes. Let them buzz about in their masks and suits. Mortimer had made his decision: he would not participate. Not in this, not in anything.

Eventually, he stopped crying. Even grief had grown too heavy to lift. Nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change. The food continued to arrive, as it always did—perfect in its symmetry, brightly colored cubes arranged like offerings to a god who had stopped watching. He did not touch them. At first, he couldn’t stomach it, but soon, he just didn’t care.

His body began to shrink. The layers of muscle he’d cultivated like armor peeled away with each passing cycle, as if his strength was unraveling from the inside out. His skin, once taut with the tension, now sagged in places unfamiliar to him. His shoulders caved inward, his spine curved slightly as if weighed down by the very air. His arms grew stringy, cords of tendon and bone that hung useless at his sides. His cheeks hollowed until they cast shadows on themselves. His belly, once lean and sturdy, became deflated like a forgotten balloon, sinking into itself as though trying to vanish.

His breath grew shallow. Every movement cost him. Lying still for too long sent pins and needles crawling up his legs, but moving brought little relief—just the cold burn of brittle joints and the ache of muscles unaccustomed to effort.

Sometimes they tried to coax him. One cycle, they brought in warm brown liquid with a strange sweetness, and tried piping it directly into his mouth. It smelled of earth and memory, but Mortimer clamped his mouth shut, letting the fluid drip down his chin, staining his already-soiled tunic. He no longer took the effort to clean himself properly. The trudge to the faux river was further than he cared to walk.

Another time, a caretaker tried music—a low rhythmic thrum through the walls that reminded Mortimer vaguely of Deb humming to herself while she arranged the green cubes on her tray. That memory only hurt, and he turned his back to the sound, curling into himself until it faded.

Later, they tried color. A wall shifted, projecting lights—blues, yellows, and a green that stabbed at his eyes. He squinted against it, muttered something indecipherable, and then laughed—a brittle, humorless sound even to his ears. The light show stopped after that.

He noticed the caretakers visiting more often now. They were bolder about entering his enclosure. He didn’t bother to interact with him. When they poked and prodded him, he let them do whatever they wanted. It wasn’t worth the effort. They would get what they wanted in the end.

That’s when he noticed a new person within his enclosure. She arrived without ceremony. Mortimer noticed her one morning—a figure hunched in the opposite corner of his enclosure. At first, Mortimer thought she might be a hallucination. He said nothing and did nothing but watch. But after a while, she moved—a careful shift of weight from one hip to another, a subtle scratch at her wrist. She was real.

At least, he was pretty sure it was a girl because of her slim form. She looked strange. Her hair color and skin color were off, and an odd shade of green. Her face looked strange as well, just a bit off in all the wrong places. She didn’t look appealing. She didn’t give Mortimer the same familiar feeling as Deb. She felt like a stranger.

He did not speak to her, nor she to him. When he looked at her, she averted her eyes. When he tried, hesitantly, to move toward her one evening, she fled away, hiding herself behind a thicket of artificial brush. It wasn’t rejection in the usual sense, but it was rejection nonetheless.

Even his shelter didn’t tempt her. She climbed into the trees and built her shelter off the ground. She would only come down for her share of food when Mortimer was sleeping. At first, Mortimer didn’t mind this. She wasn’t Deb, and she couldn’t become a replacement for Deb.

Yet, as more time passed, nothing changed. Time didn’t bring them closer together. She never changed her behavior. She never drew closer. She never met his gaze. So, Mortimer began to see her as just another object in his enclosure. Everything else within the enclosure was there to entertain him, so why would this girl be any different?

So, one evening, as the artificial lights dimmed, Mortimer made his move. He approached the girl cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest. She was huddled in a corner, her back turned to him. He reached out, his hand trembling, and touched her shoulder. She jumped, her body tensing beneath his touch. Mortimer ignored her reaction, his mind clouded by a mix of loneliness and desperation.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Just talk to me.”

She didn’t respond, her breath coming in short, terrified gasps. Mortimer’s hand tightened on her shoulder, his fingers digging into her flesh. He pulled her closer, his other hand reaching up to cup her face. She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly, his grip unyielding.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, his voice a low growl. “I just want to talk.”

However, she continued to reject him, and soon he became filled with anger. He pushed her down, his body pressing against hers. She struggled, her hands struggling against his chest, but he was stronger, and his desperation fueled his strength. He tore at her clothes, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

As Mortimer forced himself upon her, the girl’s cries of terror and pain echoed through the enclosure, a haunting melody of suffering and despair. Her voice was raw and desperate, a plea for mercy that fell on deaf ears. Mortimer’s hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her screams, his palm pressing hard against her lips, forcing them to part and her teeth to bite down on his skin. The taste of copper filled his mouth as he drew blood from his hand, a brutal reminder of the violence he was inflicting.

Her struggles were fierce, her body bucking beneath him, her hands scratching at his arms, his chest, his face, leaving bloody trails in their wake. But Mortimer was driven by a primal, unyielding force, a need to connect, to feel alive, even if it meant causing her unimaginable pain. His mind was a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions, a battle between the man he once was and whatever he was becoming.

There was a sickening sense of satisfaction, a twisted pleasure in the physical contact, in the raw, unfiltered emotion coursing through his veins. His body responded to her, his heart pounding, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his movements driven by a desperate, primal need.

Her tears streamed down her face, mixing with the blood from her scratches, painting her cheeks with a gruesome mask of suffering. Her eyes, once filled with fear and confusion, now held a deep, unyielding hatred, a silent accusation that cut through him like a knife. He could see it, the moment she gave up, the moment she surrendered to the inevitable. Her body went limp beneath him, her struggles ceasing, her breath coming in short, shuddering gasps. Mortimer had won.

Mortimer’s movements became more brutal, more unyielding, his body driven by a mindless, primal rhythm. He took her with a ferocity that bordered on madness, his hands gripping her flesh, his teeth bared in a grimace of pain and pleasure. Her cries had faded to soft, choked sobs, her body convulsing beneath him as she endured his assault.

As he reached his climax, a shuddering, agonizing release, Mortimer felt a wave of excitement wash over him. He collapsed on top of her, his body slick with sweat and blood, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps. The girl lay still beneath him, her eyes filled with tears and hatred, her body a broken, trembling thing.

Mortimer rolled off her, his body aching, his mind a whirl of confusion and loneliness. He had crossed a line, a line from which there was no return. He had taken something from her, something precious and irreplaceable, and in doing so, he had lost a piece of himself, a piece of his humanity.

As he lay there, his body still throbbing with the aftershocks of his actions, Mortimer was stunned by his actions. He had never thought himself capable of such things, but at the same time, he didn’t feel as upset as he thought he would. If anything, he felt powerful. He felt in control. It was the first time he had felt strength like this since he had been captured.

In the days that followed, Mortimer’s mood began to improve. He felt a twisted sense of satisfaction, a perverse joy in the interaction, no matter how forced. He continued to approach the girl, his advances becoming more and more aggressive. She tried to resist, but he was relentless, his need for connection warping into something dark and twisted.

Every morning, he would wake up and begin his hunt. Sometimes, she would hide, and other times, she would fight. Yet, he chased her relentlessly, and she always succumbed in the end, becoming a whimpering mess underneath him.

The girl, despite her fragility, was not easily broken. She watched him throughout the day from a distance, her eyes filled with hatred and determination. This was part of what made it exciting for Mortimer. The hunt would be no fun if she didn’t fight back.

Eventually, he began to wear her down, and she stopped fighting his advances. She would just lie there, tears silently running down her cheeks as he did whatever he wanted with her body. It became less fun and more routine. Mortimer had finally adapted to his new toy. This wasn’t to say he didn’t continue to use her, but she became no different than his tire swing or his food.

When he wasn’t using her, he didn’t care what else she did. He paid her no mind. This was until one day, when Mortimer found her, she seemed to be waiting for him. He went to push her down once again, but she pulled something hidden from behind a tree, and it took her a moment to realize it was a sharpened stick. Her eyes, wild and unhinged, she lunged at him, attempting to attack him with the stick. He managed to dodge being run through, still causing a long, painful gash on his side.

He grabbed at the stick, but she let out a feral scream as if he was trying to take her life, pulling it away and climbing up her tree. She then held the stick in a threatening manner, ready to stab Mortimer if he tried to climb after her. His eyes met hers as she stared down at him, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her eyes filled with a mix of terror and triumph. Mortimer looked into those eyes, and for the first time, he saw things. He recognized those eyes, haunted and desperate. They were the same eyes he had worn when he was being abused by Grug.

Mortimer had become just like Grug, at least to this woman. Mortimer staggered back, his hand still pressed against his wound. The girl watched him, her weapon still raised, her eyes filled with a cold, unyielding hatred. Mortimer turned and fled, his mind a whirl of guilt and self-loathing. He had pushed her to this, driven her to this act of desperation. That night, Mortimer couldn’t sleep, afraid she would come and kill him while he slept.

His fear didn’t have to last long. The next day, the caretakers learned of the weapon she had constructed, and she ended up being taken away. Like that, Mortimer was alone once again.