Page 16 of Starve
My stomach flutters, though it’s not from anticipation or excitement at his closeness. It’s anxiety, and the prickle of nerves that signals the whispers of discomfort. “What makes you think I’m going to tell you today, when I wouldn’t yesterday?” My voice comes out more confident than I feel, and I mentally pat myself on the back for the act.
His smile isn’t particularly kind when he leans forward just a little until he’s invading my space enough that I can feel his breath on my skin. “What makes you think I won’t be pushy about it?” he parrots back at me, in a voice that sounds a little unnatural. His tone, his intonation, feels almost like a recording of my own.
It’s…unsettling.
Glancing down between us, I study his hand on mine. He lets me turn my hand in his grip, and I note with mild interest that he’s naturally more tan than I could ever be, due to the olive tone of his skin. There are scars on his knuckles, which draw my attention and my curiosity, but I bite back my question about them.
“If I tell you, will you tell me why you’re here?” I challenge at last, looking up to meet his gaze. “That’s only fair.”
“I wasn’t trying to be fair, and if it came across that way…” He shrugs, smiling again. “Well, it wasn’t intentional. But yeah, all right. I’ll humor you, Fern.” The way he’s so fixated on me feels different, and overwhelming in some ways. Like every single inch of him is here withmeinstead of in his own thoughts.
It’s intense.
It hits me that he could be lying. There’s every possibility I’ll tell him and he’ll just walk away without telling me a goddamn thing. But my curiosity wins out; Cairo doesn’t seem like someone who belongs here, from the little bit of conversation I’ve had with him. If there’s a chance of him assuaging my nosiness, then I’ll take it.
“I get overwhelmed sometimes,” I offer, flexing my fingers against his and looking down at my hand. “My mom came to visit with her new husband and kids.” I'm not able to help the way my tone twists to displeasure, though he doesn’t remark or make a sound. “I was already overwhelmed, and I just wanted them to leave. I didn’t realize what I was doing, but I was…hurting myself. With first aid scissors,” I admit, grimacing up at him apologetically, as if he has any care for what I did or my wellbeing.
His gaze doesn’t soften. He just watches me with that same look of guarded interest, and finally looks down at my hand. “I did what I had to do to survive,” he says at last, a sigh in his words. It takes a second for me to realize he’s answering my question about him, rather than remarking on me.
Conversation with Cairo is strange, I observe belatedly. And if I know if I’m not paying close attention, I’ll fall behind quickly.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I point out, when he doesn’t offer any more of an explanation. But Cairo only shrugs and lets go of my hand. When he moves to walk away, my indignation at not receiving a satisfying answer gets the better of me, and I reach for him quickly, intent on demanding more of an answer.
But he’s too fast. He whirls back to me just before I can grab his sleeve, pushing me against the shelf so it rattles and dust puffs up before falling to the ground around us, along with one of the nearly desiccated newspapers. “I did what I had to do to survive,” Cairo repeats, suddenly only inches from me. His eyes look so dark that I can’t tell where his pupils begin, and it gives him a strange, inhuman quality as he pushes even closer, so our faces are only inches apart.
“And sometimes, I do things I shouldn’t.” His gaze flicks down and I swear he’s studying my mouth, and the way I’m panting in sharp surprise from the way he’s caging me in against the shelf. I can feel him wavering, and my mind races with every possibility of what he could do. Of the many ways I could regret being in here with a man in an asylum who was clearly committed for a reason. “Do you think you’d do what you have to, in order to survive?” he murmurs, and I look up at him with wide, confused eyes.
But Cairo doesn’t wait for an answer. He pushes away from me with a quick exhale, running his fingers through his short black hair. His long stride takes him to the door in a moment, where he hesitates, without looking at me. “The orderly on this side will be in the back courtyard for maybe another five minutes,” he tells me, still not turning. “So if I were you, I’d get out of here before then. Otherwise, you’re going to be in trouble.” He taps the sign on the door pointedly, and even without him facing me, I see a wolfish smile on his lips for barely a second before it fades.
“I wouldn’t want you losing out on your chance for early parole from the haunted sanitarium, Fern.” His words are dry. Like there’s a joke to be had I’m not understanding, but a second later he’s gone.
Leaving me in the dark, musty shed with old newspapers as my only companions. The silence seems oppressive and judging,but I don’t move. Not yet. Not until I can get my racing heart under control, and not until I’ve given him enough time to not be anywhere near me when I walk out of here.
After all, I’d rather die than have him read in my face an emotion I refuse to admit to today.
Chapter 7
Free time isboth the best and worst thing about this place, I’ve decided. There are enough wandering orderlies and guards that there’s not a lot of chance of something traumatic happening. Especially since any object that could be used for self harm or just harm in general is carefully locked up somewhere none of us know about. Plastic utensils included, since they’re all disposed of under an employee’s careful eye after every meal.
I’ve never felt more like I’m in prison, and every single hour has me promising myself rather vehemently to never end up in this situation again. No matter what. I’m not sure how being here can help anyone, since it certainly isn’t helping me.
Flipping through the book I’m “reading,” I realize I’m hardly paying attention to it. There are no good books on the bookshelves of the solarium on the second floor, with most of them being dry non-fiction stories or autobiographies.
God forbid the mental patients get smut or romantasy, I suppose. Who knows what we might do with such clandestine, taboo topics?
A noise makes me glance up from the small alcove I’m sitting in under a window. As a long time floor-sitter, I don’t need a chair to make myself comfortable. In fact, I’m curled up with mylegs under me, a pillow on my lap to support my arms as I lean against the cool wall behind me and listen to the wind outside as I read. It’s nice enough outside that most of the others are using their free time to go outside or at least somewhere more interesting than the empty, and slightly dusty solarium on the second floor.
But I like my alone time, and I like just listening.
I lower my hands and the book to the pillow, stroking my thumb over the cover as I listen again. I’m not sure what the sound could’ve been, especially since I haven’t heard it again. A door, maybe, or just one of the many ancient pipes that groan and pop in this place. It could be anything, and none of the things it could be are any of my business. Especially when I’m trying to keep myself out of anyone else’s business, in fear of having to stay here longer.
Two more nights. That’s all I need to suffer through. It’s already almost nightfall, and I tell myself that it’s basically one and a half nights before I’m out of here. Thirty-six hours, if the bus is on time Sunday morning.
Counting down the minutes probably doesn’t help very much, truthfully, but I can’t seem to get my mind off of it.
With a sigh, I look down at the book I’m holding, disappointed. Out of all the options on the shelves, this one, with a few stories of the history of Bluebone Ridge, felt the most promising. Still, the chronicle of how this place was built and became self-sufficient up in the mountains is drier than I hoped it would be.
Honestly, I’d rather read a shopping list than this. I hoped for something other than factual accounts and explanations on architecture. I wanted stories about how this place came to be. Not?—
