Page 17 of Ethereally Tainted

Just what I needed.

They’ve given me a blanket that’s impossible to suffocate with, which wouldn’t matter to me if it weren’t for the fact that it won’t keep me warm. It’s a non-suffocating blanket, as if I’m in a fucking psych ward.

My eyes widen in shock and disbelief as the situation dawns upon me. I’m notthere, right?

Please tell me the authorities didn’t catch up with me.

The panic rises in my throat like an awful aftertaste of bile and when I feel the vomit coming on, I crawl over to the bin under a desk without sharp edges standing in front of the bed. I empty my stomach inside the bin before slumping against the bed, wiping my mouth with the sleeve of my dress. I desperately need to change out of the dress, which is covered in dirt and has a sour smell. The defeat of my situation pours down on me, and I pull my knees up to my chin before furiously starting scratching and picking at the skin on my wrist just to keep the thoughts at bay.

Fuck, why am I here?

With a soft buzz, the door unlocks as if by itself, and I’m forced to move away. The same guard from yesterday appears, giving me a stern look of disapproval. His oval face and unyielding gaze make me feel a sense of unease as I notice his intimidating presence. He wears the same all-black uniform as yesterday, the fabric rustling lightly with every movement, but this time there is no gun or baton.

“Put this on,” he growls, his irritation clear in his voice.

Well, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I grab the pile of clothes he’s handing me with hesitation, expecting the thud of the door to close behind him so that I can change, but instead, he just turns around and stares at the door.

No privacy, duly noted.

Relief washes over me when I finally get out of the dress, the uncomfortable material falling to the ground as I stand up to put on a pair of black, baggy pants accompanied by a long-sleeved black shirt.

Within sixty seconds, the guard spins back and looks me in the eye without a word, cocking his head as though demanding me to follow him. I shuffle along behind him, my legs quivering and my muscles sore from the uncomfortable night on the floor.

In stark contrast to a few hours ago, the corridor is now bustling with activity, with various people conversing in hushed tones and others heading in the same direction as us two. After we go through the entire corridor, which I was told is wing three yesterday, we arrive at the same reception desk I saw earlier. The guard directs me toward one of the white double doors a short way from the reception before tucking me into the room. Then he turns away, leaving me with a wave of uncertainty that lingers in the air.

When I hear the hushed murmur of voices and feel the prying stares of others, I know I’m not the only one in the room. I scan my environment warily, my ears perked up for any sound and my skin tingling with anticipation of what I will find. I’m in a large room full of dining tables, the cafeteria light shining brightly in one corner. Four guards are positioned around the room, each standing at their assigned post and vigilantly keeping an eye on all the activities taking place. A wave of anxiety rushes through my body and my hands sweat profusely, as if all eyes are on me, leaving me standing there at a loss for words.

I take in my surroundings and notice that the floor here is made of more wooden material in light colors, and the ceilings are several meters high with a chandelier in the middle. Who even needs that high ceiling? It’s not like anyone can climb up and hang themselves from the chandelier, if that’s what they are afraid of.

The aroma of food fills the air and the majority of people in the room have already taken their seats and started eating, while others are still queuing up in the cafeteria. Maybe if I manage to get hold of someone, I can ask what this place is and finally receive an answer to the question that has been nagging me for hours upon hours. More than anything, I am frustrated by my incapacity to remember anything about how I ended up here.

The trembling of my hands increases as I take uncertain steps toward the food and my sense of panic grows. Honestly, I have never felt so nervous before. It’s like starting high school all over again, where you are forced to get to know other people, or else you will end up alone for years, becoming a target for bullies. Not that I ever needed friends, but there was a period in my life where I desperately craved someone I could do anything with, be anyone.

Through the years, I discovered that no matter how close you are, friends can still be untrustworthy and break your heart. They can still betray you, just like everyone else. The only person I can trust is myself and myself alone.

I can hear my heart thumping loudly in my ears as I make my way through the bustling cafeteria, feeling like the walls are closing in on me, but I keep walking, pretending everything is okay.

Get a grip on yourself, Naya.

I wait in line behind a man with lime-green hair and hear the sizzle of his food as the server places it in front of him. His friendly face and height are comparable to mine, making him seem like someone I would be interested in talking to. In contrast to me, he projects an image of kindness and integrity that’s very different from my own.

“Excuse me?” I ask quietly so that not everyone in the room will hear me before I grab a paper plate.

Great, nothing I can use to smash the heads of all the employees. What a pity.

The lime-green-haired guy stares at me with narrowed eyes before ignoring me completely, taking his plate of food before sauntering off to a table in the crowded cafeteria. Seems like he isn’t the approachable type after all.

“Rude,” I say under my breath.

When I gaze upon the meal on my paper plate, I notice some kind of meat substance and a mess that is similar to the veritable vomit I threw up this morning. The humming of people chatting is a pleasant relief, and I’m grateful that I’m no longer the center of attention. Too much attention makes me itchy.

With all the people around me using plastic cutlery and the sound of plastic against paper plates, I can’t help but wonder what type of environment this is, given that even the glasses are made of plastic. It reminds me more of a prison than a hospital, more like a reformatory school than a place that cares for sick people. No one here looks normal, but at least they seem to function normally.

My eyes roam around the room, carefully observing the details of the people and furniture present as I contemplate where I should sit.

My eyes land on one of the tables where that lime-green-haired guy sits down, and while he is deep in conversation with others, a girl sits on the edge of the table. There is something mysterious about her, and I can see her gesturing, as if she is locked in a passionate argument with a phantom. With herself.

This hospital is not like any other, of that I’m certain. I have no idea why I’m here, and the uncertainty of it all is like a jagged blade ripping through my insides. There is no way I will settle for the table I had my eyes set on, so I am scouting the room for another table. As my gaze drifts around the large dining room, my eyes eventually rest on a table in the far corner. The four people seated there are unaccompanied by guards, and they all casually converse with one another, though not as intense as the green-haired man does with his friends.

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