Page 35 of Writhe
Clint smirks. “I know you’re not eating. Not sleeping. I know you keep looking at the window like you want to jump out of it despite the bars.” His voice drops lower. “I also know that no one gets out of this place intact. Not even you.”
I swallow hard. My pulse roars in my ears.
He takes a step back, as if sensing he’s pushed far enough. “Good luck, Eliza.”
Then he’s gone.
I don’t move.
I stay there, staring at the filthy window, my reflection barely visible in the smudged glass. My hair is limp, my eyes sunken, my skin pale. I look like a ghost of myself. Like Clint was right. Like something inside me is rotting away.
I think about Theo. About his hollow stare. About the way he looked at me afterward.
When I enter the cafeteria, it’s thick with the nauseating scent of overcooked food, congealed grease, the sour taste clings to the back of my throat. Voices clash against each other at an unbearable level of laughter, muttered curses, the distant clatter of metal trays against plastic tables.
I don’t want to be here. But I am here, and now with a tray of slop in front of me, untouched. The mashed potatoes look like paste, the meat is gray and curling at the edges, and the vegetables are drowned in something that might have once been butter but now gleams like motor oil.
I stare at it. I won’t eat it.
Across the room, Theo sits alone. Not with the others. Not near anyone. His shoulders are hunched, muscles drawn tight beneath his thin shirt. His jaw is locked so hard I think he might shatter his teeth. I want him to look at me. I need him to look at me. Is there anything human left in his face—any crack in the mask, any flicker of regret, shame, or acknowledgment?
But he won’t look at me.
Coward.
I swallow against the rising bile in my throat. The last time I saw his face, it was twisted in something close to pleasure, close to horror. I remember the way he looked at me afterward, like he hated himself. Like he hatedme.
The plastic fork in my hand snaps between my fingers. A shadow falls across my table. I don’t look up.
“Are you not eating today?” The voice is smooth, almost amused. Male. One of the orderlies. The one that is sleeping with Rina, I think. She isn’t here, not sure why.
I still don’t look.
“He also said you have another session tomorrow. Your present will be delivered to your room before your shower.” The words slither beneath my skin, cold and oily, wrapping around my ribs and squeezing.
I press my lips together, keeping my face blank.Don’t react. Don’t let them win.
The orderly waits a beat, then straightens. When he walks away, it’s with a smirk in his voice. I exhale slowly, counting the seconds, willing my hands to stop shaking.
I risk another glance at Theo who is still unmoving. Still pretending I don’t exist. He knows. He knows what’s coming, and he won’t do anything to stop it. I push the tray away. My appetite is long gone.
The hunger claws at my insides, a dull, gnawing ache as I walk toward the co-ed bathroom. I don’t know why I bother—brushing my teeth won’t make me feel human again. Nothing will. But then I see him.
Theo.
He’s in an open room just down the hall, his back to me, his hands gripping the edge of a desk like he’s trying to hold himself together.
My breath catches.
He’s been avoiding me. For days, he’s refused to look at me, like I was something rotting, something he couldn’t stand to see. But I know he’s watching when he thinks I don’t notice. I know he feels my eyes on him, just like I feel his.
I step inside, shutting the door behind me.
The lock clicks into place, and his shoulders go rigid.
I take a step closer. “Look at me.” He doesn’t move. My throat tightens. “Why won’t you fucking look at me? Why did you let him?—”
“Because he would have done worse!” His voice breaks, the words crashing into me like a slap. My breath stutters. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” His voice is hoarse, ragged. “I swear to God, Eliza, I didn’t.”
