Page 27 of Starve
According to the cops, I’m the only survivor. The only living person found, though there are still a few unidentified bodies remaining and people whose bodies they think were dragged away by ‘animals.’
Monsters,they meant. But I haven’t been able to bring myself to say it.
Moro barks again and I slide to my feet on the laminate floor, shoving a hand through my hair. “It’s probably the mailman, Moro,” I tell her with a sigh. “With your stuff from the pet store. Don’t be ungrateful.” I tap her lightly on the head, though my lecture has little effect on the way she bristles defensively, clearly protecting what she now sees as her home.
Truthfully, I have no idea how she’ll be around strangers. But when I open the heavy door and leave just the screen between me and the porch, she sees the mailman, who pauses and looks at her with a smile. “Well, aren’t you pretty,” he greets.
The comment mollifies Moro instantly. Her ruff lies flat, and her tail becomes more relaxed, wagging more naturally. Apparently, mailmen aren’t threats in her world.
“I just got her,” I say with a smile, still with my hand on her head. “Sort of unexpectedly. I…inherited her.” That’s a tactful way to say it, since Jeremy’s obituary popped up online a few days ago with no mention of her. And he never deserved her, so I’m not looking to find out if his family has any interest in continuing her mistreatment.
“Pretty girl,” the mailman praises. “She friendly?”
“Umm…I’m not so sure,” I admit. “I think she is. I mean, she’s looking like she is?” But I’m not sure the mailman really wants to be my guinea pig.
He proves me wrong, however, and agrees that she seems friendly enough, so when I crack the screen open, it’s to him with a treat in one hand, standing perfectly still and waiting for her to make a move.
Moro proves us both right and my fears unfounded by stepping forward and taking the treat without hesitation. She sniffs him and licks his hands, allowing him to pet her ears while I hoist up the box to hold it against one hip while he tells her she really is the best dog ever.
I couldn’t agree more.
By the time he’s gone and I have the box of dog toys, necessities, and a bed that was stuffed into a vacuum sealed bag but is now re-inflating on the floor, I feel more alive and willing to actually do things today. For the first time in days, I want to do more than be a lump on my couch, ordering in and sulking with my dog.
Not that I can tear my mind away from the monsters at Bluebone Ridge. But I know the cops won’t be able to help me, and anyone I tell will just cart me off to the next-nearest sanitarium to talk about my trauma and delusions.
So the internet seems like my best bet. Especially when any segments on the news I’ve caught about the incidents have labeled it an animal attack, an accident, or brushed it off as being less traumatic than it is.
Maybe if any of those news anchors were actually there, they’d have a stronger opinion about it than they do now.
But I wouldn’t wish that night on anyone.
Except maybe Moro’s former owner, who I don’t feel bad for in the least.
Armed with my laptop, I switch from surfing news channels to Animal Planet, figuring it’ll work for white noise while I search. I don’t expect to land on a documentary about the feeding habits and man-eating history of grizzly bears, however, though I watch for a few minutes in grim fascination.
“Yeah, not today,” I mumble, flipping instead to the home cooking network. Finally, I’m granted a reprieve, with the sort-of attractive host of the cooking competition show reading off the list of ingredients the chefs will have to use in their dish.
Not that I can cook, so I can only grimace in sympathy at the idea of using pig tongue in any kind of recipe. Moro is back beside me on the couch once she finishes breakfast, stretched out like she owns the place, and makes me adjust sothe computer is more on my ankles than my thigh, which is her prime real estate to sleep on.
One hand wanders as I search, ending up on her head and gently scratching behind her ears while she lets out a satisfied sigh.
Unfortunately, most of the articles about Bluebone Ridge just reference its longevity and offer accounts of people that worked or ‘recovered’ there. Though to me, it simply felt like an enclosure for those deemed too harmful to themselves, so that the medical staff of whatever place that sent us there wouldn’t have to be responsible for any incident.
I don’t feel cured. With or without the monster attack.
I try searching a few different phrases, including ‘Bluebone Ridge monster’and ‘Bluebone Ridge attack’without any luck. But finally, when I change the last words toattack survivor,I see an article pop up that hasn’t appeared on any of my other searches.
Bluebone Ridge patient Laura Simms (43) says monsters are responsible for deaths on the mountain.
It’s certainly a mouthful for the article title, and as I skim through it once, then again, something in me tingles with unease. It feels familiar, even though our situations aren’t the same, and the woman, who was twenty years older than me at the time, stares at whoever took her picture with a quiet, accepting horror on her face.
After a successful escape attempt from the sanitarium in the middle of the night, Laura says monsters tore her friends apart in the woods.When she was found outside of the gates, bloody and nearly catatonic, Laura would only repeat the words “they’re starving.”
I have to stop at that, and the blood runs cold in my veins. My fingers curl in Moro’s fur, and it feels like everything in me comes to a grinding halt.
They’re starving.
That is enough proof to me that Laura Simms saw the same thing I had. I skim the rest of the article, but it’s told from the view of someone who clearly hadn’t believed her. Instead, I look her up, taking longer than it should to actually find any record of Laura Simms, who seems to have vanished into obscurity for a few years after the attack.
