Page 7 of Starve
But I know I shouldn’t be surprised, so I remind myself my arrival isn’t exactly a shock or a spectacle to them. People come through these doors all the time. My eyes flick from person to person, and I force myself to focus on little details, instead of faces. Tattoos on fingers and necks. Blue and purple poorly dyed hair. The tap-tap-tap of someone’s fingers that has me wanting to do the same thing.
Tap-tap-tap. Then I realize I’m doing it too, matching the movement of the girl leaning against the corner. She’s not looking at me, but is instead staring up at the high ceiling above us, murmuring soundlessly.
Tap-tap-tap.
Our movements are in unison now, and I find I can’t quite stop the movement of my fingers on my leg. It’s comforting, especially when, on every tap, the gash on my palm twinges just a little bit. Curious, I look up too, though all I see is a corner of the room that looks like it hasn’t been dusted in too long of a time.
“Fern Hollis.”I hear my name spoken by the desk attendant.
“Twenty-three.”
“Sent by Whippoorwill Baptist.”
My new least favorite hospital, and one I will definitely never be patronizing again, even if I’m in danger of dying. Especially then, quite frankly, since I’m not sure how a doctor on an iPad could help me at all.
“Seventy-two hour hold.”
Fuck, that sounds worse every time I hear it.
Tap-tap-tap.
When I blink, I realize the girl is looking at me, though with a jolt it occurs to me that I have no idea when she turned away from staring at the ceiling. She hasn’t stopped tapping her arm, and neither do I. It’s like some inpatient morse code that I don’t understand, but I can’t stop doing it now.
Her head tilts, and she looks almost…concerned. She mouths something I can’t understand, and mouths it again, then again, until finally it hits me what she’s trying to say.
Go home.
As if I fucking can, I wish I could howl back. I bite my lip and frown, glancing up in an exaggerated way at the orderly as if to remind her of where we are. I doubt an escape attempt would go well here, and I don’t want my seventy-two hours to be extended to seventy-twodays.
But she mouths it again.
And again.
Then finally the shape of her words change, and again it takes me a few tries to read her lips.
They’re coming.
They’re here.
They’re coming.
They’re here.
Suddenly, my view of her is blocked by the orderly, who grins down at me with the obliviousness only the neurotypical can achieve. She doesn’t even notice the tapping of my fingers, or if she does, she doesn’t remark on it.
“Ready to get out of that chair?” she asks, reaching out one hand like a benevolent deity offering me sacrament. I sit up immediately without waiting for her to actually give me permission, though I duck away from her offered hand.
I don’t need help. Especially from Bluebone Ridge, and I can’t help but be resentful of my situation. The orderly gives a small frown, which she quickly hides, before smiling at me again. This time, however, it’s a little forced. Not that I care. Her feelings aren’t on my list of things to give a damn about today. All I care about is her approval of me so I don’t end up somewhere worse.
If there even is somewhere worse…
“I’ll explain everything while we walk, if that’s all right with you. You can call me Esther, by the way.” Her smile feels even a little less genuine now, and almost a bit wooden. But I only return it politely as I glance back at the corner where the strange tapping girl was.
But she’s not there anymore. No matter where I look in the large room with benches and an almost cathedral-like appearance, I can’t find any trace of her at all.
“Is this place meant to look like a replica of a hospital from the 1800s?” I murmur, following the orderly,Esther, away from the desk.
“Oh, it isn’t a replica,” she assures me. “While there have been updates made and conveniences put in, this building is almost just as it was when it was originally built. Though it’s not from that long ago. It was built in 1924 and has always been a wellness center.”
