By dinnertime my first night at Peacock House, the rumors had swept through the staff as a wildfire that I was Mrs. Cleanknockers newest ‘Pet’. Evidently the near constant discipline and semi-nudity had jaded everyone to the point of indifference. The juicy beef was mush in my mouth, the creamy potatoes dry and crunchy bread stale. The chatter flowed around me as if I were a ghost: I felt bile rise. I was granted my excuse and fled to my attic room. I was weepy and lonely. Self-pity rose in darkling shroud and Morpheus dragged me under. Dreams were sweet.
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