Page 11 of Writhe
Rina sighs. “You need to eat.”
“I need a lot of things.”
She doesn’t argue. She just picks up her spoon and keeps eating.
I turn my head, watching the other patients. Most of them eat in silence, heads down, movements slow and mechanical. Like prisoners.
Because that’s what we are.
Someone sits across from me. Another patient—I don’t remember his name. He looks at me, his eyes too bright, too eager. I already hate him.
“You’re the one who mouthed off in the group,” he says. “That was?—”
“Don’t talk to me,” I cut in.
He blinks. “I was just saying?—”
“I don’t care.”
His mouth snaps shut. A moment later, he stands and leaves.
Rina smirks. “You’re really good at making friends.”
“Why would I want friends?”
Her smirk fades. She doesn’t answer.
I lean back in my chair, pressing my hands againstmy stomach as it twists. The Doctor did this, and I hate him for it.
The hunger doesn’t go away. It doesn’t fade into the background like the constant buzzing of the fluorescent lights or the distant hum of patients murmuring to themselves. It stays, a living thing inside me, clawing at my ribs, making my thoughts sluggish and irritable. I flex my fingers against the table, counting the seconds between each breath. If I focus on something, anything, I can pretend I don’t feel the weakness creeping into my limbs. Across from me, Rina watches with that knowing look, like she’s waiting for me to break. I won’t.
“Seriously, just eat the damn bread.” She pushes the tray toward me again. “They already won. You think starving yourself makes you strong?”
I roll my eyes and shove the tray back. “Ithinkit makes me not their fucking dog.”
Her lips press together, but she doesn’t argue. She knows I’m right. No one gets food unless the doctor decides they’ve earned it. And I haven’t earned anything, not after what I said in the group. Not after the way I looked at him like I could see through the paper-thin mask of civility he wears. Like I know exactly what he is—a snake. A surgeon cutting us apart piece by piece just to see what makes us tick.
I dig my nails into my palms and force my gaze away, scanning the room. A few patients pick at their food with shaking fingers, others shovel it down like they’re afraid it’ll be taken from them. The ones who misbehave sit with empty trays, like me.
Rina keeps eating, her spoon scraping against the bottom of the bowl. I watch her movements, the way her fingers tremble slightly as she grips the spoon. She’s been here longer than me—knows the rules better—but she’s still afraid.
That should mean something.
I don’t ask what they did to her. She doesn’t ask me what they’ve done to me.
That’s the unspoken rule.
A chair scrapes against the floor, and I glance up as another patient sits down at the table beside Rina. He’s a short little thing with eyes that never settle on one thing for too long.
His name is Ollie, I remember that much.
He picks at a piece of bread, tearing it apart instead of eating it. “So, what do you think they’ll do to him?”
“Who?” Rina asks.
He gestures toward the spot where Charlie had been standing before he got his face bashed in. “Him. Think he’ll wake up?”
Rina shrugs. “Depends.”
