From Every Orifice

She was bent over the sink, washing the dishes, wondering when she resigned herself to a life she had to endure. When?

The thought was interrupted by the General screaming in her face.

“These plates are not clean enough!”

He lifted one over his head and smashed it. The eighth broken plate that morning.

She didn’t flinch, there would be more. She didn’t react beyond returning to the wash.

“It’s not clean enough!” he repeated, then walked out.

She blinked at the water swirling down the drain, thinking she could be Alice in Wonderland, follow it and find herself in a fantasy.

And again, that question returned: When? When did she start enduring instead of living?

Maybe it was the first time she said, “It’s okay,” when it wasn’t.
Maybe it was when she stopped asking what day it was, because they all felt like this — like nothing.
Or when the General — who wasn’t a general at all — started breaking plates, and she stopped reacting. Maybe it was when the shouting stopped startling her.

It was her turn to close down the kitchen that night. She made sure to leave him in his office, tied to a chair, his body spitting hot oil from every orifice.

She started to feel better. Instantly.