Page 8 of Starve
Wellness Centeris a new one for me, but I keep my mouth shut.
“So I should be on the lookout for flapper-era ghosts, instead of pre-colonial ones?” I can’t help but ask mildly. Esther stops in front of me, turning that wooden smile in my direction that Imeet with slightly narrowed eyes and a plastic grin of my own. “It’s nervous humor,” I assure her.
Somehow, that seems to mollify her a little bit, even though it’s a lie. While I’m terrified as hell, I’ve always had opinions about Bluebone Ridge, ever since I first heard the stories. “There are no ghosts here, Fern,” she assures me. “Especially any that are out to hurt you. No matter what rumors float around about this place, there’s nothing harmful about Bluebone Ridge, all right?”
She turns suddenly, reaching out to grip my shoulders in a way that’s probably supposed to be comforting. I see her smile, though I look away, over her shoulder to stare down the hallway lined with thick-glassed windows casting wavering shapes on the floor from the light outside.
But that’s not what holds my attention.
At the end of the hall—dressed in the plain powder blue outfit of a Bluebone Ridge patient—a man leans against the doorframe, his hair black enough to soak up the sun from outside as it falls across him.
He meets my gaze, though from this far, I can’t tell what color his eyes are. And the whole time that Esther talks, he seems unnaturally still and almost not breathing.
“There’s nothing here to hurt you, all right?” the older woman promises, her smile still so fake it hurts. “We’re here to help you, Fern.” Her fingers tighten, then loosen on my shoulders, but I still don’t look at her. I’m too focused on the man. There’s nothing particularly special about him, save that he’s olive-skinned and good looking as hell. So I don’t know why I’m so interested.
A smile twitches at his lips, though it isn’t quite a friendly look. Slowly, he reaches up to press a finger to his lips, nodding at the orderly before stepping away from the door anddisappearing down the far hallway, just as Esther turns to see where I’m gazing.
“What are you looking at?” she asks, interested rather than accusatory.
“Nothing,” I murmur, not hesitating to lie even for a second. “Just the sunlight through the windows.” Blinking, I snap myself out of it, offering her a smile that probably doesn’t look very genuine. “Is that glass from the 1920s too? It looks weirdly thick and wavy.”
Her suspicion fades, and she immediately launches into an explanation about glassmaking that I couldn’t care less about, before leading me on this nonconsensual guided tour through the totally haunted asylum up in the mountains where it’s already feeling like someone is watching.
Chapter 4
The rest of the ‘tour’passes with me thinking of approximately two things that I can’t get out of my head.
The man in the hall with the small smirk as he pressed a finger to his lips.
And, predictably, the dog.
It’s like a game of Pong in my brain as both topics battle for supremacy, though I’m sure Esther won’t want to hear about either as she shows me the hall of therapists’ offices, the rec center, both back courtyards where a sea of blue-clothed people exist in varying degrees of displeasure, and finally the dining hall. My stomach twists as I remember I haven’t really eaten today, though not for lack of my mother trying to get food at the hospital.
When she’d offered to bring me something, the nurse jumped down her throat and told her it wasn’t protocol, and to my mom’s credit, she tried to argue. She told the nurse I’m quick to get nauseating headaches from hunger, but the nurse only shrugged.
Really, Whippoorwill Baptist will forever be on my shit list, I’ve decided. And the idea of making an account onlinejust to leave them a strongly worded poor review is incredibly appealing.
“Any questions?” Esther asks, stopping outside of a room in the women’s residential wing. She already told me in stern terms that women are not allowed in the men’s wing and vice-versa, as if I’m an unruly, sex crazed teenager looking to bang every eligible inpatient in my seventy-two hour stay.
Not that I’d let that comparison slip out loud, of course.
“Uh, no,” I murmur, stroking my fingers over the sterile blue cotton of the clothes she gave me to change into. They’re unappealing at best. At worst…well, at least I’m in good company, I suppose. After all, not everyone in residence can be a serial killer, statistically speaking.
Probably.
“You have four hours until dinner. In two hours, you’ll need to be at Dr. Hallman’s office. You remember where that is?” she asks, putting that stern edge into her voice. I nod in agreement, and graciously accept my sneakers back on top of my new outfit, now bereft of their dirty white laces that I clearly could’ve used to strangle myself.
“I suggest you spend some time in your room, or if you like, you could head to one of the courtyards. Any closed door with a STAFF ONLY sign is off limits, and going in won’t win you any favors.” I nod again, and this time Esther steps up, her hands coming up to embrace me in what I’m sure she thinks is a warm, convincing way.
Not that I believe it.
“I know the stories that go around about Bluebone Ridge…” She sighs, giving me her best understanding smile. “I know you really don’t want to be here. You’re taking this really well.” She offers me another kind look that feels just as put on as the rest of her current speech. But I give her my own smile, hoping I look appropriately reassured.
Which I am not.
When she leaves, I walk into the room Esther showed me, changing quickly into the stretchy, powder blue outfit. It’s certainly not that flattering, and with my pale blonde hair, it just serves to make me look more washed out than usual. Not that I can see much of myself in the small, bolted down bathroom mirror.
Touching it proves that it’s definitely safety glass, and it occurs to me that it has to be. After all, wouldn’t want those of us with suicidal natures offing ourselves, I suppose. But the reality of it only makes me feel worse.
