The cold chains clinked faintly as you shifted, the cold metal digging into your ankle with every small movement. You sat in the same wooden chair you always did, your eyes hollow, locked on the untouched plate in front of you. You couldn’t really remember the last time you felt hungry. The only sound that filled the quiet room was the soft melody of a hymn, his voice humming the same religious song he always sang to lull you into sleep. His hands moved with care as he washed yours, like handling delicate porcelain.

Before every meal, it was the same routine. Your hands had to be washed, cleaned with holy water, free from the stains of sin. You had to remain pure. Untainted. He took a pristine white cloth and wiped your pale fingers, his eyes never leaving your face.

When he was finished, he set the basin aside, reaching for the one gleaming red slice of apple on the plate. He held it delicately between his fingers, like it was something precious, and brought it to your lips. The apple’s skin was shiny, smooth, perfect, just like everything in this house. Your eyes followed the slice. You felt the sharp edges of hunger in your belly but couldn’t bring yourself to move. He noticed how thin you had become over the days. You had refused food so many times, but he was always patient. Always persistent.

He pressed the apple against your lips gently, urging you to take a bite. His voice was soft, loving, lips softening into a delicate smile. “Come on, my little lamb. Just a bite.” he whispered, eyes full of twisted devotion. “A lamb must not waste away. A lamb must remain healthy.”