She lies unresponsive on a cot laced with nylon straps. A single bare bulb illuminated her chamber but she will not complain when he turns it out and leaves her in the cellar's darkness.
He tilts the bed upwards and feeds her Marvel powdered milk mixed with eggs for protein. She eats mechanically, chewing and swallowing when her mouth is full, stopping when its empty. He talks to her as each spoonful is transferred from bowl to mouth. He feeds her once a day, not that she recognises the passage of time.
He checks her for sores and blemishes, rubs her sores with lineament before dressing them with bandages. Checks her pulse and blood pressure, marking both on a paper chart hung from a hook on the wall.
He massages her legs. She's lost all feeling in them and no longer responds when he runs a cocktail stick along the sole of her foot. There is no twitch of the leg when he runs it along either calf, and she doesn't blink as it leaves a thin red line from her knee to the crease of her labia. The massage keeps the blood flowing smoothly and prevents the bed sores that are appearing with frightening regularity on other parts of her body.
He checks the straps as he reaches for a sponge to wipe away the tear of dried blood left over from his amateur lobotomy. As the shadow of his hand crosses her eye line her pupils dilate, but there is no further sign of life. He wonders if she's still locked away inside her own body, screaming to be released but there is no way to look for her id and the concept doesn't keep him awake at nights anyway.
She doesn't flinch as he cuts off a sliver of flesh with a scalpel. He sautés the skin in a little salted butter but the sliver of flesh – no bigger than a tuppence – he eats raw. Ancient warriors thought that consuming the flesh of an enemy adds their power to your own. He just considers himself a gourmet.