The Potrero Complex by Amy L. Bernstein

Author:Amy L. Bernstein
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regal House Publishing
Published: 2022-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

14

I didn’t vomit today. Guess that’s progress. The sadist doesn’t care.

Still dizzy, though. Chanelle says I’ll get used to it. She’d know. She’s been here over a year. I don’t see myself lasting that long. I can tell after only three days.

I fucking hate chickens. Hate hate hate them.

I miss crab island. Almost. It was super-shitty. But this is super-shittier.

Chanelle and I aren’t friends. Nobody here is friends. Just stuck. No, caught. Like lightening bugs in a jar. I used to snatch them and fling them into an old mayonnaise jar, then screw the lid on so they couldn’t get away.

Didn’t know I’d turn into a lightning bug. Snatched, stuffed inside, with the lid closed so tight there’s no escape.

At the super-shitty place, I didn’t vomit, even though the smell was real bad. Crabs aren’t as disgusting as chickens. Their parts are way smaller.

But the crab juice burned like hell in all the cuts that crisscrossed my fingers and palms. I can still see lots of little scars from the shells, which are sharper than they look. The knives too. The gloves they gave us were a joke.

One morning after Flora disappeared—if that’s what you can call it—I woke up with shooting pains in my wrists. My hands got a mind of their own, curling up like claws. The sadist with the shaved head gave me two aspirin. Said I’d get used to it and I couldn’t slow down.

Pick, pick, pick. They think our fingers are wings. Or machines.

Sadist approaching for bed check. Must tuck this away soon. My new bedsheet diary.

Good thing I keep the Sharpie tucked down my pants.

But I want to get this down. Out of me.

They put me on the evisceration line. I didn’t know that word. Still not sure how to spell it. But I’m living it.

I remove the viscera. Heart, lungs, stomach. All the fatty slops.

Rip, rip, slide, plop. Rip, rip, slide, plop. I hear the rhythm of falling guts when I close my eyes at night.

I still gag. But at least I don’t spew.

The naked yellow chickens dangle from a metal conveyor rod, all dead and defeated, like us. Hundreds and hundreds of them come at me, an army of pimply corpses. The line moves, moves, moves for hours and hours. My head buzzes. My hands burn and sweat inside thick rubber gloves.

Guess what they feed us? Chicken.

I can’t eat that shit. Can’t eat any of their shit.

Can’t sleep. Writing in the dark.

Shooting pains across the back of my neck and shoulders. Like I’m an old lady now. Pains in my stomach, like I’m being stabbed.

Tried closing my eyes, walking through my favorite cheerleading routine.

Step, hop, hop, step, kick, kick, left arm up, right arm up.

Rip, rip, slide, plop.

Can’t remember the rest. Everything hurts.

Another day. Maybe two. I want to chop off my hands. It’s their fault. They stopped working on crab island. One morning, I couldn’t hold the knife. It clattered to the floor. My hands contracted like an eagle’s talons. The shaved-head sadist yanked me off the line.

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