Chapter 28
ABSENCE FEELS DELIBERATE
Lost My Mind - Alice Kristiansen
Honey
Hunger doesn’t hurt the way I expect it to.
It doesn’t stab or burn. It presses. It fills the spaces between thoughts until everything feels crowded and thin at the same time. Like I’m made of paper and someone’s slowly crumpling me from the inside.
My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks when I swallow. Every few minutes I forget that and try again anyway, like the next time might be different.
It never is.
The room is too bright. Too clean. I can see everyone too clearly.
Hatchet stands where they left him, wrists locked to the restraint bar, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing against an impact that never comes.
His hands shake constantly now – not violently, not yet, but enough that I can’t stop watching them.
The tremor crawls up his forearms when he exhales, then retreats when he locks himself still again.
It’s wrong. Everything in me screams that it’s wrong.
Bones sits forward on the bench, posture careful, economical. He keeps adjusting his weight in tiny increments, protecting something I can’t see. His wrapped hand is swelling again; the gauze is tight, edges darkened. He notices me looking and turns his body just enough to block the view.
Ghost is the hardest.
He’s sitting, but not resting. His back is too straight, like he’s holding himself upright with will alone. His eyes keep drifting, unfocusing, then snapping back sharp and bright, as if he’s been called by a name only he can hear.
Snow is still. Too still. Controlled to the point it feels brittle. He’s conserving – I know that much – but the tension in his jaw tells me he’s fighting something internal, some calculation that won’t resolve.
Nightshade isn’t here. His absence feels deliberate. Like the room is unfinished without him. I wonder where he is, how he is, and why he’s not here.
My stomach tightens again, a slow, hollow twist that makes me curl forward before I can stop myself. I press my forearms into my thighs, grounding myself in pressure.
Do something, my body urges. Fix it.
I’ve always trusted that instinct. It’s never betrayed me before. That’s what scares me now.
Time drags. Or jumps. Or folds in on itself. I keep expecting the sound of the tray sliding back out, the return of the ration like a reward for patience. Nothing happens.
Hatchet’s breathing changes. I notice because I notice everything right now – every sound feels too loud, every shift magnified. His chest is moving faster than it was before, breath pulling sharp and shallow through his nose. His shoulders hitch once, twice. The tremor worsens.
I stand before I decide to.
The movement sends a wash of dizziness through me. My vision narrows briefly, darkening at the edges, and I have to stop and breathe until it clears. My legs feel wrong – hollow, untrustworthy.
Snow turns toward me immediately. His expression tightens, warning clear even without words.
I hesitate. Hatchet’s hands shake harder. So I take one step closer, staying well inside the invisible boundary they marked for me. I keep my hands open, slow, visible. Not a threat.
I don’t speak because I don’t need to. Instead, I exaggerate my breathing instead – deep, deliberate, paced. Something to mirror. Something familiar. I angle my body slightly sideways, non-confrontational, the way I’ve always done when someone’s on the edge.
Hatchet notices. His eyes flick to my chest, track the rise and fall. His jaw tightens, then loosens. His breathing stutters, then – grudgingly – begins to slow.
Relief hits me so hard it’s almost painful.
There, my body says. That’s it. That’s what you’re for.
The room hums. Not louder. Not different. Focused.
Bones stiffens. I see it in the way his shoulders lock, the way his gaze snaps from Hatchet to the ceiling and back to me. He knows. He understands faster than I do.
Snow’s expression goes cold.
Hatchet’s breathing steadies, but his eyes widen slightly – not with calm, but with understanding. He looks at me like I’ve stepped on a landmine.
I realise it a second too late.
The voice overhead doesn’t sound pleased. It sounds interested. “Prosocial behaviour detected.” The words land like ice water down my spine. “Subject Honey exhibits stabilising influence under deprivation conditions.”
Hatchet jerks violently, chain clattering as he pulls back from me as far as the restraints allow. The sudden movement sends another wave of dizziness through me.
I step back immediately, hands lifting in instinctive apology even though no one’s accused me out loud. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted him to stop shaking.
The room is silent again, but the silence has changed. It’s narrower now. Sharper.
They’re watching me.
I sink back down to the floor, legs folding beneath me because I don’t trust them to hold. My heart is pounding too fast, too loud in my ears. My mouth is so dry it feels swollen.
Across the room, Hatchet forces himself still again, every muscle locked, breathing controlled through sheer will. The effort shows – sweat slicking his skin, veins standing out along his neck.
I did that. I gave them a switch.
Ghost makes a small, broken sound and presses his hands against his temples. His eyes slide unfocused again, lips moving silently. I can’t tell which of him is closer to the surface now.
Bones won’t look at me.
Snow does, once. Not angry. Worse.
Resigned.
The hunger surges again, stronger now, fed by shame and adrenaline. My stomach cramps hard enough that I have to bite down on my lip to keep from making a sound.
I wrap my arms around my knees and rock slightly, trying to make myself smaller. Quieter. Less visible.
Stop caring, I tell myself desperately. Just stop.
But my eyes keep tracking Hatchet’s hands. Ghost’s posture. Bones’s guarded movements. Snow’s tightening jaw.
I don’t know how to turn it off. I don’t know how to be useful without being used.
And as the room settles into its watchful stillness, one truth sinks in deeper than the hunger, deeper than the fear: They don’t need us to fight each other. They just need me to keep trying to help.
And I don’t know how long I can resist doing exactly that.