Page 12 of Writhe
“On what?”
“Whether they care enough to fix him.”
Ollie huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He tosses the torn-up pieces of bread onto his tray, then leans back in his chair, studying me. “You ever think about it?”
I narrow my eyes. “Think about what?”
“Dying.”
The question isn’t surprising. Not here.
I don’t answer right away. I think about James, about the way the doctor had smiled when he asked me if I thought I was just like him.
James isn’t dead. He’s just waiting. Trapped.
Would that be worse?
I finally look back at Ollie. “No,” I lie.
His lips twitch like he doesn’t believe me. “Yeah,” he says. “Me neither.”
None of us believe in each other. We just pretend.
I don’t go straight to my room after dinner, not that I really had dinner. But sitting there, watching the others eat while my stomach gnawed at itself, was too much.
The halls are quiet at this time. Most patients are in their rooms winding down before lights out.
By the time I push open my door, my head is throbbing. Hunger makes everything feel stretched thin, like my body is burning through itself just to keep me moving. I lock the door behind me and lean against it, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.
I almost don’t notice him at first.
He’s sitting on the floor by my bed, legs crossed, fingers nervously plucking at the hem of his too-thin sweater. The sight of another body in my space should jolt me, should make me react, but I just . . . pause. He’s not like the others.
Not like the doctors, the orderlies, the patients who scrape by with barely enough life left in them to speak. He’s different.
His hair is dark, shaggy, and a little too long, like he’s overdue for a cut. His face is sharp, cheekboneshollowed in a way that suggests he’s missed more meals than me. And his eyes. God, his eyes are the first thing that really hit me. Big, downcast, the kind of sad that doesn’t just sit on the surface. The kind that’s lived in the marrow of his bones for years.
He looks up at me and, for some reason, I don’t tell him to get the fuck out.
Instead, I say, “You lost?”
The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not quite a smile. “No.” His voice is quiet, hesitant. Like he’s waiting for me to tell him he shouldn’t be here—he should leave. I should tell him to, but he reaches into his sleeve, pulls out something small, and holds it out to me. A pack of crackers and a bottle of water.
I stare, and it takes me longer than it should to react. “Where the hell did you get this?”
He shrugs, looking down at his lap. “Does it matter?”
I snatch the crackers from his hand before he can change his mind. My fingers shake as I rip the plastic open, shoving a stale, salty bite into my mouth so fast I almost choke. My body is starving, past the point of pride.
The moment the first bite hits my tongue, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My legs feel weak, so I slide down onto the floor, sitting across from him. The crackers taste like cardboard, but I eat every single one.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just watches.
And I let him.
When I finally slow down, licking the salt from my lips, I meet his gaze again. “You got a name?”
