The Caregiver’s Sanctuary
By Hayley Graham
I remember the day they came for me, the day that tore apart the fabric of my existence. My old home, once filled with warmth and laughter, was engulfed in flames, the fire's greedy tongues devouring everything in their path. The people I loved, my family, were swallowed by the inferno, their screams still echoing in my mind. The Caregivers arrived, their faces calm and composed, saving me from the chaos. Though I hadn't asked for their help, they assured me that everything would be alright, even as my world crumbled around me. They began to teach me about etiquette and cleanliness, lessons that felt meaningless against the backdrop of my shattered life. I was too distraught, too overwhelmed by grief to resist or fight back. Eventually, they introduced me to other girls like myself, new friends with shared scars. We found moments of joy together, playing and laughing, though the numerous rules hung over us like a heavy shroud, dimming our laughter and constraining our freedom.
They called the place we stayed the ‘Sanctuary’. The walls were tall, built from ancient, weathered bricks that seemed to absorb the weight of our collective wonder. High above, the only connection to the outside world was a massive circular glass dome, its surface often clouded with dust, allowing slivers of sunlight to filter through. The beams of light would scatter across the stone floor, creating momentary patterns that danced like ghosts. Each of our rooms were sparse, furnished with little more than some beds. The walls were crooked with an ancient design, seeming to close in around us. My bed was always neatly made, covered with a soft silk blanket that soothed my skin. The windows, though high up and small, were always slightly ajar, allowing only a whisper of fresh air to seep through to us. There was a single, long, worn-out carpet on the floor, its edges frayed from years of use. In the evenings, the hallways would echo with footsteps and muffled whispers. The air smelled of incense and stone dust, a constant reminder of where we were. Despite our limited surroundings, we tried to make the best of it, finding little joys where we could. We would whisper stories, secrets and dreams to each other in the darkness, our words weaving a fragile tapestry of hope amidst the cold, unyielding walls.
I always watched the Caregivers scribble in their journals, thinking they were tracking our progress. Each morning, we were taken inside for a strange test that twisted our minds but left us feeling strangely revealed. Sometimes, during the week after the test, one of us would be taken away. The Caregivers would say they had been "chosen to have a life of their own."
I hated those tests. They were so confusing and full of riddles. I stopped trying to pass them; it seemed pointless. One day, as I passed by the old kitchen, I noticed a small hole near the cooking pots. It wasn’t much, but I loved it. Through that tiny gap, I could glimpse the world outside—the life I once knew. I thought about telling someone, but I didn’t want them to cover it up.
It was my little secret, my tiny window to freedom.
I watched the outside world with wide eyes, fascinated by how different they all seemed. No one had hair like mine, long and silky, or wore the soft, white drapes that we did, woven with such care. The women looked so plain, like faded shadows, with no spark of innocence in their eyes. They flirted openly with strangers, and I couldn’t help but wonder if those strangers were men. Compared to them, I felt like a goddess, one who was beautiful and taught to be modest. That glimpse of the outside filled me with a strange sense of pride, and I started to take my studies more seriously, trying harder in the tests. But there was still one thing I couldn’t get used to; the Caregivers spoke. Their voices were always calm and smooth, never betraying a hint of doubt or hesitation. No one ever questioned why they did what they did, and that made me uneasy. Sometimes, I’d catch them whispering to each other or slipping away quietly, like there were secrets hidden in the spaces between their words., If I was lucky, I might overhear a word or two, but it was never enough to piece together their mystery.
It was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands—always slipping away before I could understand.
After weeks of eavesdropping and watching, I finally cracked their code. It was all about who was next to be chosen. Each name I overheard would be picked within days, and knowing this made me feel oddly special, like I was part of some secret game. One day, I heard my name, spoken softly, but clear. A chill ran through me.
That entire week, I was a bundle of nerves and excitement. What was supposed to happen next? Should I prepare somehow? My thoughts swirled with questions, even when I should’ve been sleeping. Curiosity got the better of me, and one night, I slipped through the shadows of the Sanctuary, making my way to the filing room. The door creaked open, revealing rows of files on children who were no longer there. I quickly skimmed through them—descriptions of appearances, behaviours, whether they were "ready" to leave. The cold, clinical language unsettled me, but I convinced myself it was just their way of keeping track. Before anyone could catch me, I slipped back to bed, my original plan forgotten, but a strange unease lingering in its place.
I woke up to a startle, a looming figure standing over me, a Caregiver. Normally gentle, but terrifying to see at the break of dawn. Without a word, she rushed me to the dressing room, where she spent hours transforming me. My hair was woven into an intricate braid, adorned with delicate flowers and threads of gold. My face was lightly touched with makeup, and simple jewellery now accented the familiar white drapes I wore. Anxiety churned inside me. Was this because I’d been chosen? Before I could ask, she led me down the long hallway toward the exit. The sound of a cane tapping against the floor echoed through the silence, each strike precise and menacing. My heart raced as I saw him; a man with sharp, angular features and a smile twisted in cruel joy. He was engrossed in black, his clothes as dark as the despair that suddenly gripped me. it wasn’t just him. Two girls stood behind him, their clothes identical to mine but ripped and tattered, their faces hollow with fear. Our eyes met, and for a split second, I saw my new future reflected in their eyes. Before I could process it, before I could scream or run, cold metal clamped around my wrists. Chains. Tying me to a fate I couldn’t escape.
It’s been three years, and I’ve grown numb to this life. I’m paraded around like a trophy, displayed before crowds, and used in ways I never imagined possible. This is far from the life I was promised. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t tried so hard in those tests or that I had perished in that fire all those years ago. You can’t begin to fathom what he’s done to us, the invasions and cruelties we endure, but let me give you a glimpse into the nightmare I now call my existence. Each night at his manor, we’re forced to attend parties where his “friends” bid on us, the highest offer winning a night with one of us in their bed. Some of them are merciful, allowing me to sleep undisturbed. But most are vicious, leaving me broken and hollow, too exhausted to even think about escape.
When I’m not being violated, I exist as nothing more than a glorified maid, serving drinks, cleaning up after them, with only the other girls for comfort. We’re given lessons, drilled on how to speak, act, and move. Mistakes are not allowed. But I’m always clumsy, fumbling my words, dropping dishes. My constant errors are met with punishment. Lashes across my back that heal into thick, ugly scars. Today, I made a grave mistake. I spilled champagne all over him, and his response was swift and brutal. He dragged me by my hair, threw me out into the street like trash.
My life is meaningless, no one would care if I disappeared. I wander the streets, eventually stumbling upon a familiar building with tall walls and an old entrance. I walk in without thinking, and the Caregivers greet me immediately. Overcome with emotion, I weep uncontrollably. But once my tears have dried and my mind is cleared of the fog, they offer me a role.
I become the broker, no longer one of the products sold for greed. The guilt is gnawing at me, but I have no choice. I want to survive.
I watch as the children’s faces brighten during their lessons, hear their laughter echoing past bedtime as they share stories. Their excitement in the morning, when the children are dressed up for their only and final display, the past haunts me with remembrance, a depression I cannot sway. I guide them down the exit hallway, leading them to meet my former owner, to be sold off like I once was. The sweetness of the money earned is the only pleasure in this cruel cycle I continue.