Page 10 of Writhe
But admiration is not the same as mercy.
I lift my clipboard and write.
Monitor response to medication adjustment. Increase one-on-one sessions. Ensure all staff remain alert—the subject is prone to unpredictability.
Then, without another glance, I move on.
By the end of my rounds, I have documented every relevant detail, every deviation from expected behavior, every necessary correction.
Tomorrow will bring new tests, new progress, new failures.
And, in time, they will all become exactly what I need them to be.
Hunger is a slow kind of violence.
It doesn’t tear into you like fists or shackles, it gnaws. Picks at the edges of your thoughts; turns everything hazy and slow, like trying to wade through mud. It makes you weak. Makes you pliable.
The Doctor knows this.
That’s why I haven’t eaten in two days.
My stomach aches, a hollow, twisting thing inside me. But I won’t ask for food. I won’t beg. That’s what they want. To see me kneel, to see me crumble.
I won’t.
I sit at a table in the common room, my fingers tapping against the cold metal surface. Rinais beside me, but I barely hear her talking. The words blur together—something about a dream she had. Or maybe it was something real. It’s hard to tell with her.
Across the room, a patient—Charlie, I think—makes the mistake of asking for more food. He’s young, barely older than a teenager, with arms so thin they look breakable. He stands near the food cart, hands clenched at his sides.
“Please, I haven’t eaten,” he says, his voice trembling.
The orderly behind the cart doesn’t answer, just watches him with that blank, dead expression they all have.
Charlie tries again. “I—I just want?—”
The blow comes fast—a fist to the gut. Charlie crumples, gasping, choking on his own breath.
No one moves. No one speaks.
We all know the rules.
“Sit down,” the orderly says, shaking out his hand.
Charlie doesn’t. He’s curled on the floor, moaning softly. His ribs rise and fall too quickly. The second hit is to the face, the sound sickening. Wet, meaty, final. He goes limp. Not dead, but unconscious. Maybe that’s mercy. The orderlies drag him away like a sack of meat, his feet leaving smears of something dark across the floor.
“Fucking idiot,” Rina mutters.
I say nothing.
Rina doesn’t understand. Not really. She’s been here long enough to know better, but there’s something inher that still believes things could be different. That if you play nice, they might let you go.
I know better.
She pushes her tray toward me. “Here. Take some.”
I glance down. A piece of bread, and a few spoonfuls of something gray and lumpy. It smells like glue.
I push it back. “I’m not eating that.”
