Page 17 of Of Sinners & Salvation
“This is your home now,” he says. “Welcome to the asylum.”
When he’s gone, I let myself fall apart. I slam my head down on the pillow over and over, and I scream. I tear at my limbs, trying to free myself from the impossible bonds. When I’m too weak to continue, I fall back and sob, my stomach aching with the violence of each convulsive burst, clenching on emptiness. I’m unable to curl into a ball the way I want to, unable to hold even myself. And I miss Raphael. I just want to hold him and cry the way I used to, in my room at Aunt Lucy’s, secret tears that wouldn’t be a burden to her.
At last, I fall into a dull sleep.
When I wake, the door is sliding open again. This time, a woman and a man pushing a wheelchair enter. She’s wearing scrubs, and he’s dressed casually.
“Time for dinner,” sings out the woman, who looks like someone’s matronly aunt in a Disney movie. “I heard you were throwing quite a tantrum down here. We won’t have any of that tonight, will we?”
“No,” I say despondently. Already I’m scheming, thinking of whether I can catch her off guard. But I know I need food first if I want to have any hope of fighting anyone again. So, when she undoes my bindings, I climb from the bed, my legs shaking so hard I can barely move.
“Oh dear,” she says. “You’re not dressed. Can’t have you parading around the mess hall in your birthday suit, can we?”
She bustles to the closet and pulls it open, revealing what must be the asylum uniform—beige pants and a matching top with a v-neck and short sleeves. They have no pockets, an elastic waistband, and the material is thick and scratchy. I pull it on with no complaint, then sink into the wheelchair as directed, my heart racing and my head spinning like I might faint.
As they push me out of the room, I take in everything, trying to memorize it even in my foggy, starvation state. The first thing I note is that my window tinting is only on the inside—from out here, the room can be clearly seen. So can all the other rooms we pass, each one empty save one. I crane my neck, trying to see who’s in the bed, but the woman clucks her tongue.
“Nosy Nellies get no supper,” she scolds, and I quickly turn my face away.
“Please,” I blurt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t,” she says. “But we have to give people their privacy. You wouldn’t like people staring in at you like a zoo exhibit, would you?”
I remember the doctor shoving his fingers inside me, and I imagine people just walking by, able to see clearly through the glass.
“No,” I mutter. “Please don’t put me back there.”
“That’s a first infraction,” she says, walking along beside us and marking something on a small clipboard hanging around her neck. I see a name tag there too—Patricia.
We reach an elevator, and I’m comforted to know that I guessed right about being underground. It makes me feel a little better to know my mental faculties haven’t bene completely shut down by hunger. The man pushes me inside, and they step in with me and hit the button to rise to the second level.
When we emerge, the smell of food hits me so forcefully it almost brings tears to my eyes. My stomach growls so long and loud that it echoes in the corridor, along with their footsteps. There’s a quiet murmur of conversation interrupted by a loud crack, then silence. The wheels of the chair squeak on the floor as they push me into what Patricia called the mess hall.
“Now, you just sit with your peers and get some food in your belly,” Patricia says, leading the way to a buffet style setup. “You’re the last one to eat, so you can serve yourself today.”
“Thank you,” I agree, using the lever to stop the chair. I push myself up from it, though it feels like a herculean task. Istart scooping the food, not caring that I’m left with the dregs of soggy cafeteria fare in the bottom of the trays.
“Now, now,” Patricia says. “Don’t get greedy.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, leaving the scoop, even though I want the blob of pasty mashed potatoes in one corner, a dried sheet of the stuff peeling off the edge of the metal pan.
“You catch more honey with flies,” yells out someone at one of the tables.
I turn, but I can’t tell who spoke. I take a second to search the room for her, but there are too many people.
“Fifteen to twenty-five looks like your age group. Is that right?” Patricia asks, setting a plastic spoon on my tray and gesturing to the long rows of tables.
The man with the wheelchair tells me to sit, but I shake my head. “I can walk.”
Halfway to the table Patricia indicated, I wish I had let them push me. Not because I can’t walk—though my knees are so weak I want to sink to the floor just to rest for just a minute, maybe take a nap while I’m there—but because everyone is watching me. Some are pretending they aren’t, but most of them are, even the ones with heads down. Some are outright staring with no shame. I never had to do this, walk through a cafeteria with no friends. I was homeschooled, and at Thorncrown, the dining hall is open for two or three hours for each meal, so students come and go as they please. No one bats an eye at a girl walking in alone. The few times I’ve gotten jealous looks from girls, I’ve been with the guys, so it didn’t really bother me.
Now I make my way to the table on trembling legs, clutching my flimsy Styrofoam tray. My heart is slamming against my sternum when I reach an empty chair, the second before a walkway and then the next long table. I set my plate down and try to pull out a chair, but the leg is caught on the one next to it.
“Sorry,” I mumble, yanking at it in vain, afraid I might start crying. I just want to sit down, to eat, to be left alone.
“Jeez, chill,” says a girl with a wide, flat face and freckles. She scoots over, adjusting her chair to free mine.
“Thank you,” I sigh, collapsing into my chair in a relieved heap.
