Page 87 of Broken by my Bully
That’s why Rooke does it. It’s so fucking satisfying.
“Right. Let’s start voting.”
Bastian
The hand draped over mine is skeletal. It belongs to a starving person, or a terminally ill patient who’s already slipping away from the world.
I suppose both are true.
“She refuses to eat,” the nurse at my side says, concern etched into every word. “If you can’t persuade her, we’ll have to use a tube.”
There’s a tray of small finger foods on the nightstand.
It smells revolting.
Or maybe it’s just the room.
The sick woman living in it.
“They’re right.” I stroke the hand in mine. “You’ve lost a dangerous amount of weight. Please, Evelyn.”
Brown eyes framed with dark lashes dance over my face, barely keeping contact with mine before dancing away.
“Try to feed her,” the nurse whispers to me.
My jaw clenches as I pick up a yogurt container, peel it open. But when I try to feed Evelyn a spoonful, she turns her head away.
“May we please be alone,” I murmur to the nurse, bowing my head like I can’t bear to look up at her.
“Yes, Mr. Rooke, of course. Just ring if you need anything.” The nurse lays a hand on my arm and then leaves, casting a sympathetic look at us over her shoulder, nodding like she’s encouraging me not to give up hope just yet.
“The food here is godawful,” Evelyn snaps, dragging my attention back to her. “You’d know if you bothered to read my letters. I’ve sent you dozens of them.” She adjusts the maroon robe swaddling her emaciated body. “Is there a reason you didn’t reply to a single one?”
I roll my lips together, biting them between my front teeth as I toss the yogurt carton back onto her nightstand. It tips over, creamy liquid oozing onto the metal surface.
The urge to correct her claws like trapped rats inside my chest.
When Dr. Evelyn Rooke sees me, she’s looking into the past. Trying to drag her into the here-and-now is a cruelty I’ve been advised against. Her physician says it doesn’t help. That it simply confuses her even more. That it could lead to distress, severe disorientation, or even a mental breakdown.
I wouldn’t wish early-onset dementia on my worst enemy.
What’s the point of such exquisite torture if they can’t realize it’s happening?
She grabs my hand again. How weak she’s become, her fingers barely dimpling my flesh.
“You’re ice cold,” she says, mouth pulling like I’ve offended her deeply. “Have you been sitting in the rain again? You’ll catch your death one of these days.”
My pulse thrums, a sudden intense heat building in my chest. But I take a slow breath, and then another. Another.
Her moment of lucidity disappears as swiftly as it arrives. But its effect lingers on as a prickle in my fingertips.
“How long do I have to stay here? That maid is using my perfume, you know. And she doesn’t clean the toilet properly. I’m going to have her fired.”
Despite what I’ve researched on the condition, despite what the doctors and staff tell me, I’m still convincedthat I can make her understand what’s happening. There must be a way to avoid her reaching back into the past to torment me.
Or perhaps I’m just testingherlimits.
“You’re in a nursing home, Evelyn. You have dementia, and you can’t look after yourself?—”
