A novella by Christina Bergling

The Cage

Beatrix-cage-floor

From The Waning:

“I should have still been aware of the thin bars pressing into my flesh as I lay balled up on my side. I should not have been able to ignore that sharp,
constant pressure on every contact point of my body. However, my nerves started ignoring them long ago. The slim metal bars cradle me in their arms before contorting into a sturdy square, sealed with an ominous lock.

Such a brilliant mechanism, my cage. A Matryoshka of the small and dark room itself, it sits near the back corner, not unlike a large dog crate. A
prison within a dungeon, a restraint within a cell. I live in this tiny box. It is my safety, my existence. The one remaining space of my world; the only possession I could retain, granted to me by You.

I can feel the temperature of the concrete floor as I hover inches above it, floating in the embrace of the bars. I can imagine extending my limbs as they rest folded against my torso. With my back against one side, I cannot stretch out my arms; my elbows remain angled. With my scalp pressing against a bar, my legs remain doubled along themselves.

I am not meant to move. I am not meant to live. Here, in my cage, I am meant to wait.”

Artwork by the talented Phillip Beachler, the Graphics Smith.

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