Dying On My Own Terms

Gilles

e high ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow on a mahogany table laden with delicacies. Silver gleamed

ir downward gaze, focused on the pristine white tablecloth. The array of food was overwhelming – lobster bisque, seared scallops, a p

ed. Meals were a race against the clock, a brutal competition for survival. You ate fast, or you didn't eat. The habit was

they might as well have been made of plastic. They weren't pl

I kept my silence, a skill perfected over three years. Don't speak unle

ar, are you enjoying the dinner?" It was Mrs. McCarthy, Dozier's

my chair, scraping it loudly against the polished floor. I shot to my feet, my

ilent room. It was a bark, a reflex from roll call, from the

arefully avoided, was now fixed on me. Dallas, further down the table, l

hands again, spreading through my arms. This wasn't Serenity Heights. There was no nurse with a syringe, no security gu

ed with an unexpected sharpness, "You startled the poor girl." She turned to me, her eyes,

es remained glued to my untouched plate, to the p

th a controlled irritation. "Did you hear Grandm

e been furious, would have lashed out. But the new Kristal just shut down. My body tightened further, a coil ready to snap. I squeez

ood a testament to my fear, my silence a monument to my compliance. Dozier's words, "stop acting out," replayed in my mind. He still didn't understand. H