Work Text:
It was a pleasant day. I had admired the browns and oranges of this new world, pacing through its autumnal grace, so different from the dacha's oppressive majesty. Mr. Grant walked two paces ahead, not bothering to look back. I could run.... no use. I'd be caught and killed before I had taken two steps. Everything had shifted so fast, I felt as if I got whiplash. One day ago I had been scrubbing floors and shifting boxes, working for nothing but humiliation and minimal nourishment in return. Today I was given a job opportunity. We sat in a café, I heard him order something in smoothly flowing Italian.
He asked about me as we waited, and I answered, slightly reluctantly. Soon, the food came. I tried to eat. I was starving. But I couldn't. The smell of it reminded me forcibly of the dacha, it reminded me of tasting his food again, and I felt acid rise in my throat. I didn't want to be there, people were surely watching me, was it poisoned? It was a stupid thought but my mind pushed the possibility and I made little sense (even to myself) as I spiralled.
I excused myself to the café's toilet and was ill, my mouth ejecting bile and the litre of water I had drunk the night before. When I was finished I sat on the tiled floor for a while, shoulders shaking and trying to ground myself. I rinsed my mouth to get rid of the taste of my own stomach acid. When I was back, Grant did not question me, but surely he noticed my puffy eyes. Grant was a smart man, he knew I had been a food taster. I didn't doubt that he had figured it out. He enquired once, whether I was going to eat any more, and when I refused, he nodded and mentioned food no more.
I haven't been able to eat properly since.