Page 15 of Starve
I sigh with my head in my hands, sitting on a staircase that’s invisible to the rest of the courtyard thanks to its solid stone wall. But that doesn’t help block out any of the noise. Moro whines about twenty feet away from me, once again tied up and left next to a railing. I saw an empty water bowl beside her, which has my teeth gritted together and my entire being on edge. I hate how Jeremy treats her, though I’ve only seen glimpses of the blond security guard who appears to be in his mid thirties.
And ugly, with a sneer that constantly adorns his long features. I watched subtly for twenty minutes as he chatted with his friend, while Moro nosed at him more than once to get attention or probablywatersince her bowl has been empty since I came out here. But every time he shoved her away with one foot, not caring at all, until she eventually crept back along the precarious slack in her leash to lie down heavily against the stone wall.
It’s disgusting, and I have no idea how it’s allowed or okay. But I have to remind myself over and overand overthat I cannot make this my business. Especially since I can’t risk staying here longer than I have to. I don’t want to piss off a guard enough that he finds a way to get my stay extended. Or, even worse, so he ends up treating Moro with less care than he already does, though that would be outright abuse. Not that it isn’t already.
Finally, I hear her sigh, and her whining stops, as if she’s given up and resigned herself to being treated like crap for the rest of the day. It causes my heart to twist in my chest, and I feel sick enough to know I have to get up and go somewhere else. Anywhere else, actually. Somewhere that I can’t see or hear her. Otherwise, I’ll do something stupid like break her out and punch her handler in the face.
Whichdefinitelywould not help my cause.
I walk around the perimeter of the courtyard, walled in by a thick iron fence, and go up on my toes a few times to look through the fence into the trees beyond. It’s chilly for late summer, but then again, it’s always chilly up in the mountains. Even my thermal base layer under the short sleeve blue shirt isn’t quite enough to keep me warm, and when I exhale, my breath puffs into the air in front of me while I drop back down from the balls of my feet, once more seeing nothing in the woods beyond.
Honestly, I need to get over this feeling of having seen something in the trees. It was either an animal or my starving delusions, nothing more. And if I get too fixated on it, someone is going to notice and think I belong here for longer than the prescribed seventy-two hours, which I’ve decided I would not survive.
My steps take me along the abandoned gardens that apparently once grew food for both the patients and staff, back when this place was more than just a mental hospital and before it was so easy to have things shipped here. Now the stone planters and rows in the dirt just look sad, with their cracked and unkept edges. There are only a few other patients here, and two of them talk to each other like their conversation might get heated; because of that, the orderly sitting on the stairs and reading her book has her eyes on them.
Though she spares me a quick warning glance, as if to remind me any shenanigans won’t be tolerated. But she’s quick to put her attention back on the two arguing men, who are starting to get just a little louder, though nothing extreme. I keep walking, uninterested in their problems, until I come to the dilapidated old garden shed.
Naturally, it says STAFF ONLY on the door. But when I look back at the stairs, I see the orderly is up and marching toward the men, her back to me, and I take that moment to slip inside, though I know I could get in a lot of trouble for doing so.
I decide quickly that my defense, if I’m caught, will be that the sign on the door was barely legible and falling apart, so maybe I just hadn’t seen it or realized what it said. It’s the best I’ve got, and with my curiosity about the small space winning out, I push it to the back of my mind to focus on the small shed that’s about the size of my bedroom back home.
But really, it’s underwhelming. I don’t know what I expected, but storage should’ve been at the top of my list. A few boards and screws litter the floor on one side of the room, along with an old toolbox. The windows are cracked and so dirty they look solid grey, with no transparency to be found.
Still, I figure that since I’ve gone to the trouble of sneaking in here, I might as well make the most of it. I work my way along the shelves, studying every piece of discarded junk I can, and eventually make it to a stack of newspapers that are yellow with age and falling apart.
ATTACK NEAR BLUEBONE RIDGE SANITARIUM LEAVES TOWN PARANOID.
The headline jumps out at me, and I very carefully pick up the top newspaper, noting the way it starts to almost disintegrate in my fingers. My mission is thwarted instantly, however, when I realize that so many of the words are distorted from water damage and time that the article itself is unreadable. The onlything I can see is the top of a picture of someone with dark hair, though I can’t tell if that person is supposed to be a suspect, a victim, or a witness. Eyeing the title again, I run my fingers over the old paper, feeling the way it gives under the pads of my fingers. I’ve definitely never held a newspaper this old, or in this bad of shape.
It’s interesting, and I wish so badly that I could read the article, instead of just the headline. I try again anyway, finding only a few legible passages that make no sense out of context. I don’t know what kind of attack it supposedly was, though I manage to find the date at the top of the paper, almost washed out as well.
August 6, 1988.
Nearly forty years ago, but only a week away from now, in terms of month and day. I have no idea how in the world this paper has survived so long, or what in the world it’s doing out here, of all places. Still, it’s interesting, and I give it one last glance, wishing again there was some way for me to see anything else.
It takes only a moment for me to decide to go through the rest of the papers as well, so I set the first aside, my fingers brushing against the others in the messy stack. The next few are so faded that I can’t make out anything at all, and yellowed beyond belief, and when I grab for one near the bottom of the stack, I’m shocked into nearly dropping it by an amused, curious voice behind me.
“Didn’t you see the sign on the door?” Cairo asks in his usual drawl, so close I can feel his body heat behind me. “This is staff only, Fern. If you get caught in here, you’re going to be in trouble.”
“Are you going to tell on me?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I glare back over my shoulder at thetall, dark-haired man. “Because I’m pretty sure you’d be in just as much trouble as I am.”
Cairo rolls his shoulders in a shrug and moves to lean his hip against a nearby table covered in dust and stray pieces of wood and screws. “Sure,” he agrees. “I’d be in trouble too. The difference is, I’m not trying to get out of here before Monday, so I have nothing to lose.” There’s something like a satisfied, mischievous gleam in his eyes as he says it, but he makes no move to follow through on his threat.
He just stands there.Watching.
“I was in the courtyard…” I sigh, breaking first in the silence. Though I don’t know why I feel the need to explain, I run my fingers over the newspaper in my hands, wincing as it tears as easily as wet tissue paper, no matter how careful I am. “But I hate seeing or hearing Moro. Well, I hate how mistreated she is. She looks to that guy for literally a fucking crumb of attention, and her water bowl had been empty since I got out there.” Now that I’ve gotten going, I can’t stop, and my hands tremble a little in my frustration. “How is it okay for him to treat her like that? How does no one else here give a damn?”
When Cairo doesn’t answer, I glance up at him, catching a small flicker of surprise on his face. “That’s what bothers you?” he asks. “A dog?”
My scowl deepens, but he holds up his hands in surrender just as a real, full grin curls his lips upward in apology. “Whoa, I didn’t mean it like that. No need to plan my death behind those pretty eyes, Fern.” Cairo steps forward, plucking the newspaper from my hands and tossing it to the shelf behind me. “Most people are too absorbed in their own problems to care about Moro, that’s all I’m saying. So I wasn’t expecting that to be your first concern.” He doesn’t move away this time. He stands right in front of me, searching my face with his unreadable expression.
“Do you like dogs?” I don’t know why that’s what comes out of my mouth, but it is.
Cairo snorts. “Yeah, I like dogs. Who doesn’t?”
“Assholes. That’s who doesn’t.” When I try to move away from him, with half a mind to make sure the coast is clear so we can both leave, Cairo suddenly reaches out, grabbing my arm and lightly pushing me against the shelf with the newspapers. It rattles a little, and I nearly stumble, but his grip on my arm keeps me upright easily.
“What happened to your hand?” Cairo’s hand runs down my arm until he can pick up my bandaged hand and hold it up between us.
