5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Matt
Sometimes I go too long without food. The kind of food I can keep down, at least. Not often. Just… sometimes.
I know when I’ve done it because the usual signs of my hunger start to fade away. The pains in my stomach become more ghostlike than real. It gets a little easier to function through the waves of dizziness. My mouth stops randomly watering.
In their place comes the shaking.
It starts in my hands, a tremor more than anything, but soon after it’ll become a whole-body thing.
It usually gets bad enough where even the most careless of masters would notice, either sending me away annoyed or feeding me to get me to stop.
Sometimes I'd even be lucky enough for the food to be something easy for me.
It was the worst when Bryce would notice.
He'd fill up with all that anger he'd spend most of every day keeping buried, furious and ready to do something about it.
He became skilled at stealing food for me.
Nothing much, which he always looked upset about, but which I was grateful for.
It was so much easier to stomach the scraps of bread or strings of cheese he'd swipe from the kitchen.
It was the best when Mast - Travis - found me like that.
Even though I never believed his big sad eyes, I didn't mind the gentle way he'd guide me to the kitchen, and I'd be flooded with relief as he'd feed me little bits of fruit and cheese and crackers like he somehow knew I couldn't handle more.
He always gave me orange juice too - no pulp - and he always smiled when the shaking slowed down.
I thought it was some sick game for him. I guess it wasn't.
Travis will notice if I get shaky like that again. Nolan and Bryce will, too. None of them will like it. They'll worry. They'll try to fix it. They'll ask questions.
Why haven't you eaten? You know you can take food whenever you need now, right?
Or,
Didn't you just eat a few hours ago? Have you been sick?
Or,
Do you need to see the doctor? Is something wrong?
I don't want to answer questions. I don't want them to have to worry. I don't want them to know I'm broken.
So when I notice my hands start to shake, I wait until everyone’s busy and sneak away to the kitchen.
There’s a pot of coffee brewing, nearly finished, and a bowl of fruit off-centered on the counter.
I eye the selection, wondering if maybe fruit would be a good place to start.
Not a banana, just the thought of that mush in my mouth makes me shudder, but a crisp apple, maybe?
One of the red ones? Sweet, but not overly so.
Nothing like a chocolate candy.
I grab an apple with one of my shaking hands. The coloring is an array of reds and pinks, no waxy shine catching the light. It’s heavier than I expected.
For a moment, I feel just as off-centered as the bowl on the counter. I’m not supposed to be able to do this. I eat what I’m given - or try to, at least - or I starve. There’s no casually taking an apple. No being a picky eater.
It feels like something bad should happen. Like I’m a character in some action movie and removing the apple should set off a booby trap. It’s just a regular apple, though. A regular fruit bowl. A regular life - even if it doesn’t feel like it at all.
“Good morning.”
I startle, dropping the apple in my haste to turn around to face whoever spoke.
It’s the therapist. Doctor… something. Something with an S?
He’s smiling. It’s warm, gentle, kind - and I know it’s supposed to be comforting, but it makes my skin crawl.
Where did he come from? Am I in trouble? Was that apple not for the survivors? Or maybe just not for me?
Can he tell I’m not real?
Is he about to remind me that ghosts don’t need to eat?
“Matt, right?” he asks, his voice the same as his smile.
No, actually.
I nod anyway.
Another smile, still not comforting. “I was wondering if you had some time to meet with me? There are a few things I would like you to know, both about the safehouse and about your own treatment.”
It’s not exactly a yes or no question, but it’s close enough where I could nod or shake my head and he’d still understand.
It’s a trick question, though, because of course I have the time to meet.
It’s not like I have plans. My schedule pretty much consists of sitting around hungry and quiet by myself, sitting around hungry and quiet with Nolan or Bryce or maybe even Carter or Casey, or being hungry and quiet while I nap.
I take too long to answer.
He fills the silence with more words. “It’s just important to me that you’re informed about your care here.
I’m not asking for a therapy session. We don’t need to discuss what you’ve been through or talk about feelings - not if you don’t want to.
I just want you to know your options. Think of it as a consult. Even milder than a consult, really.”
I could probably get away with yes or no to this too.
I’d just have to use my head, since he doesn’t know about the other methods that Dr. Deacon told me I could use.
Nolan uses those methods now too, and he must have told Bryce because he understood when I accidentally gave him two fingers as a no this morning.
That’s three people who can communicate yes and no with me.
Dr. Something isn’t one of them.
God, what’s his name again? I know that I know it. What is it?
There’s a notebook and a pen in the front pocket of my hooded sweatshirt, right beside my bunny. But if my head doesn’t want to shake or nod, then how would I look down at the notebook to write? Should I try to look away to test it?
Maybe if I can successfully look away, it’ll unlock something inside of me and I’ll suddenly be able to control my movements? That might be the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard. It makes zero sense.
Then again, I can apparently scream, which means I can make sound, so the whole not being able to speak thing makes zero sense too.
I make zero sense.
Because I’m broken.
I can sense the apple still at my feet, probably bruised, ruined, dropped by a ghost who had no business trying to take it.
Maybe there was a booby trap after all.
“How about this?” he asks. I snap my eyes up to look at him.
Which means I managed to look away at some point, without even noticing.
Which means my stupid head is working after all, despite it being too late now to use it.
“I’m going to leave my office door open for the next hour, but I’ll tell anyone who stops by that I’m not available unless it’s an emergency.
If you feel up for it, I would love for you to stop in.
Absolutely no pressure. You won’t be in trouble if you don’t. I won’t be upset.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond this time. He just smiles again, nods once, and walks away.
I know it’s supposed to take the weight off of me. The pressure. I know it’s supposed to make me feel comfortable or safe or in control. Instead, it feels like he left a grenade at my feet and walked away with the pin.
A grenade in the form of a bruised apple.
“You don’t have to,” a voice says from my right.
I jerk around for the second time in a matter of minutes, a sharp breath catching in my throat as a wave of déjà vu washes over me. It’s not the therapist this time, though.
It’s the man who brought me the tote bag.
The notebook and pen in my sweatshirt are from that bag. They match. The notebook is blue with little white flowers so delicately drawn that they almost just look like squiggles from far away. The pen is white, but its little grippy-thing is almost the exact same shade of blue.
I don’t even know if they were meant to match. The pen came in a pack with other pens. Not all of those pens have a notebook in the same color scheme. But these two matched, and looking at the blue makes me warm, so I have them with me, alongside my blue bunny.
I wonder what he’d say if I told him that.
I wonder what he’d say if I admitted that I haven’t been able to use his hair stuff yet because I can’t get myself to shower. I always end up just standing in the bathroom, staring at the tub, shaking so hard I worry I’ll come apart at the seams.
It’s almost as stupid as the fact that I couldn’t control my head just now, and sometimes can’t control my hands, and can’t speak even though there’s no reason for it.
Nothing bad happened to me in the shower.
At least, nothing bad enough to stick out.
It’s just that the thought of taking each piece of clothing off and keeping it off, keeping it all off, all at once, just being there naked and empty and not even a real person, it - it makes it hard to breathe.
Would he find that stupid? The man who gave me the tote bag?
What was his name again?
Dr. Singh.
Wait, no, that’s not him - that’s the other one. The therapist is Dr. Singh.
This man is…
“He’ll write the information he wants you to know down for you, if you’d rather learn that way,” he says.
He’s leaning back against the counter, dressed in dark jeans and one of those sweaters that only has a zipper part of the way down the chest. It’s pale blue, so light and soft against the dark skin of his throat.
“If you don’t want to meet with him, I’ll tell him to write it all down instead.
It’s probably just a list of things, really.
He’ll want you to know the resources here and if he has any ideas or a plan for your own individual therapy.
That kind of thing. He can slip it under your door when he’s finished with it.
Or send it to you with one of your friends.
Hell, I’d bring it, if you wanted. You don’t have to see him. ”
The coffee mug he’s cradling to his chest sends steam swirling up to his face as he tilts his head at me.
It’s not the type of head tilt I’m used to, though.
It isn’t the same way people move their head when they’re trying to figure me out, or when they pity me, or when they can’t understand what I’m trying to communicate.