I came in here planning to launch a hunger strike to earn back my freedom. That plan went kaput on the first day when a different, less curmudgeonly maid had walked into my room pushing a serving cart filled with the most delicious things I’ve ever put in my mouth.
Blackened salmon drenched in a lemon garlic sauce. The silkiest pasta I’ve ever eaten. Flaky pastries bleeding raspberry filling. The list goes on: shrimp cocktails, buttery ribeyes, scalloped potatoes dusted with luscious parmesan cheese.
It was like I’d died and gone to culinary heaven.
Only problem is, I’m still trapped in culinary heaven with no lifeline to the outside world. The deliciousness of the food I’m constantly being served isn’t enough to make up for the fact that I’m a caged bird.
The worst part: I don’t know
