Chapter Twenty-One
Quinn - Present Day
The walk back to the main house is painful. And because it’s painful, it means I’m moving slower. Not that Dickwad gives a shit. My limp is becoming more pronounced, and I’m regretting not bringing my walking stick with me for the extra support.
“Come on, Hop-a-long. Breakfast is getting cold!”
“Can I put in a request for an aid to help me with walking while I’m here?”
“Sorry, Sweet Cheeks, no can do. That could be considered a weapon, and you know, with you being mentally ill and a suicide risk, it’s just not something that the doc would think was a good idea.
It’s time to learn not to lean on your crutches and step into the real world.
Hit the ground running, as one would say—no pun intended. ”
“But, I have a physical disability…”
“You keep bringing up these issues that aren't my problem. Do some stretches; that will help.”
Yeah, because stretching will reignite my ability to walk pain-free again, you ignorant fuck.
“Or you could lose some weight, that will help too. All that pressure on those joints can’t be fun for them. I heard ‘em creaking, the poor bastards.”
How a man like him ever got a job as a caregiver or passed his nursing qualifications, quite literally blows my mind. There’s not an ounce of care in his bones.
A person who has never experienced a chronic illness will never understand the complete one-eighty that your body can do in a short time.
One day you can be dancing in your bedroom or cleaning the bathroom, and the next you're laid up for a week with nowhere to go. It’s part of the reason I haven’t continued with my make-up artistry qualification, because without a specialist chair for the clients to lean back on, I’m unable to sit comfortably to paint their faces to the best of my ability.
And to get that, I need money. Money isn’t something that’s easy to come by for someone who’s unable to work due to a disability.
Sometimes, I do transitions on social media. A secret account, of course, because it’s something I can’t afford for my family to ruin. After my accident, it was the one thing I could do with the limited movement I had, and I honestly love it. Maybe it’s something I could monetise in the future.
The future. That’s a wild concept. I’ve never thought about the future. I’ve lived minute by minute, hour by hour, for the entirety of my life.
The sheer exhaustion from simple things like showering or washing my hair can put me into a flare-up for days.
And it’s hard being in a flare-up in a house where you’re not believed and forced to work through it, causing more issues in the long run.
As time has gone on, more and more issues have arisen due to my inability to rest.
When I’m talking to someone who asks me if I’m in pain at that exact moment they’re asking, it’s hard to get through to them that I’m quite literally in pain all of the time.
The clue is in the name: chronic pain. The only thing that differs is the amount.
My base level of pain is a 6 out of 10, minimum.
Even when I’m sitting down, my muscles scream at me, my nerves pulsate, and on the bad days, if someone brushes against my skin, it’s like someone skinning me alive would be less painful.
There’s a thing called spoons for people who suffer with chronic illnesses.
Each day you have a certain amount of spoons.
Kind of like currency. Once they're used up, that’s it until the next day.
Some days you have ten spoons, other days you have two.
I’m envious of the people who never have to experience it, but even the people around us get fed up with it.
It’s probably partly why I’ve never looked to the future. My mum is right: what kind of man would want a woman like me? I don’t know from one day to the next whether I’ll be able to get out of bed, let alone anything else.
My diagnosis, according to the doctor, is chronic regional pain syndrome.
They tried to fob me off with a diagnosis of fibromyalgia, but my mother wasn’t having it.
She said that was a cop out because they were too lazy to figure out what was actually going on.
Between you and me, though, it was probably because once you receive a fibro diagnosis in the UK, all help ceases to exist. There are no follow-ups: they try to take away your medications, and anything that happens after that diagnosis to make your health worse is all put down to the fibro, so no further investigations are warranted.
And God forbid you should have a fibro diagnosis and be overweight.
All health problems lead back to you being fat, even if the symptom of your condition is an inability to lose weight.
On the one hand, the fibro diagnosis made sense because it is triggered by trauma, and aside from the accident, my life has been riddled with it, but with that would come the inability for my mother to gain any attention from the doctors, and I’d be left to fend for myself.
CRPS usually affects an arm or a leg and is triggered by an accident or a surgery.
I disagree with me having CRPS, because my entire body is affected, not just the side that was injured.
But, alas, the boss lady spoke, and the peasants listened.
Many cases are misdiagnosed or go undiagnosed, so I fear I am one in a very long line that has fallen through the cracks.
It’s lighter than it was when I made the walk over here last night, so as I’m moving, I try to take in a little bit more of my surroundings.
The fence is still there with the big warning signs.
The garden spreads to a wider boundary than I could see last night, and the grass is uncut throughout.
It’s almost like there’s an imaginary separation directly in the middle of the space because in one step you go from complete destruction to pristine perfection.
The area between the houses is vast, but I have yet to see another person.
You’d think gardening would be a way for us to pass the time and a good option for therapy, but it’s clear that doesn’t happen here.
To the left of me as I walk back from the derelict building, there is a bigger fence with a sign saying keep out on the front of it.
No obvious gate exists, but I’m starting to see that not everything here is as it seems.
Limpdick walks through the back door that leads onto the back porch, and just as I reach it, he slams it in my face.
Charming.
“Gotta be quicker than that, Sweet Cheeks.”
I hoist open the door, grabbing onto the doorframe to pull myself up the two steps into the enclosed space, before asking, “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Because your cheeks are sweet.” He grins at me, poking the tip of his tongue out to lick his dry, crusty lips and cackles—that’s right, cackles—like one of those dirty witches when they’re casting the spells on the partners of their love interests out of jealousy.
I can imagine it actually, him leaning over a cauldron having to spell women into showing him any interest—his personality is a dud, after all.
“This way. There should be food left for you if the other assholes haven’t robbed it from you.”
We walk back through the long hallway, under the staircase I saw last night, and turn left.
Down another hallway, there are mismatched frames scattered all over the walls, and inside each one is a picture of a person, or persons, of all shapes and sizes, laughing and smiling.
The organisation sends my brain scatty. At the bottom is a plaque with names and dates, so I assume they’re previous residents.
I wonder if they had to live in the back, too.
I can’t imagine anyone who’s stayed in there having a smile like that for promotional opportunities.
We come to two black doors with no panes of glass in them and a gold chain across the front of the two doors.
“Why are the doors chained?”
“To keep people inside, of course.”
“Surely that’s a fire hazard?”
“Hazard, schmazard. Gotta keep these bitches in line. ‘Sides, the rules, remember?”
“Ah, yes, the rules. Don’t worry, I’ll read them as soon as I’m allowed.”
He unhooks the chain from the door, the sounds of metal clanking and clattering cause undue attention from the residents inside as the door opens.
My mouth drops. Inside there are tables and chairs in a regimental order, with a clear divide down the middle.
A board which says The Daily Subject with a sentence underneath that I can’t quite make out at the moment.
One group of people seated to the right are in a red uniform, a stark contrast to my powder blue one, and to the left, the people who match me are seated.
The right side is positively glowing at the sight of new blood on the premises, with wide, toothy smiles, looking at Dick expectantly.
A mixture of sexes—because gender isn’t linear or obvious to assume—and all seemingly slim and put together.
It’s obvious they don’t live in the same place that I do.
On the left side, they’re a mixture of sizes but mostly overweight; their hair is greasy, their skin is littered with acne, and their faces look gaunt despite the added weight on the rest of their bodies.
It’s like a battle of the bodies, but the skinny ones always win by the looks of this place.
He gestures inside. “You can sit at the table with The Degenerates, seeing as you’re one of them.”
“The what?”
“The Degenerates. The Undesirables. The people society doesn't care about.”
“But people do care about me. I have a family.”
“You have bigger issues than I thought if you think your parents dropping you off here was a sign that they care about you. Now, go. Eat. Darla will be in with your medication soon. Your food is on your plate.”
He shuts the door behind me, and I’m left alone. Well, as alone as I can be with ten other people in the room. I walk over to the table with ‘The Degenerates’, as he called them, and introduce myself.
“Hi! I’m Quinn, where can I sit?”
They look at me, stunned.
“What? Do I have something on my face? I haven’t been able to look in the mirror this morning, obviously.”
Their heads shake furiously, as if begging me to stop talking.
“Are you all mute?”
One girl reaches out and grabs hold of my hand.
She lifts her finger to her mouth, signalling me to be quiet and stop talking, before running her finger across her throat in a cutting motion.
I nod my head, gulping, showing I understand, and sit in the available seat next to her.
In front of me is a plate with one hard-boiled egg and some blueberries.
Next to it is a glass of ice water and a laxative pack with ‘Guaranteed to melt the fat off of you’ as their tagline.
Great, so now it’s not just the fact they want to fry my brain I need to worry about; they want to heighten my eating disorder too. What an epic fucking establishment.
I go to pick up a knife to cut my egg in half and find the side of my plate empty.
I look up and go to speak, but as soon as I open my mouth, the girl covers it with her hand.
She gestures with her hands to show that they’re my only utensils.
I break the egg into pieces and take a bite.
It's cold and congealed, and the yolk is so dry it sticks to my teeth. Ick.
I pick up my glass of water and take a gulp before eating the rest of the egg and the few berries on my plate. Maybe he was right, and they stole some food off of my plate because they didn’t know I was actually gonna show up for breakfast. Surely, they have to feed us more than this?
Once I’ve finished the food, the girl next to me gestures to the wall where I saw the daily subject as I came in.
Next to it is a giant notification board with Rules written on the top of it.
I stand up and make my way over to it. Anticipation crawls across my body in the form of goosebumps, and my stomach wants to volley the egg straight back up, but I need to eat before they give me my medication.
As I start to read the rules, my heart starts to pound. Fear and trepidation scream from inside me to get out of this fucking place by any means necessary.
Saving Hearts’ Rules
1. Must ask permission to use the bathroom. 5 minutes in the bathroom at any time, twice a day (if you mess yourself, you sleep in it).
2. Not allowed out unless unaccompanied by either Richard or Darla.
3. If a member of Mycroft House (The Undesirables) is spoken to by a member of the Moriati House (The Superiors), you are allowed to respond but do not speak unless spoken to (exception to the rule between your designated group only – see Rule 9)
4. No contraband (electronics, clothes, toiletries, unapproved books, makeup).
6. You are allowed exactly 1 hour of exercise a day. Moving is mandatory. If you are caught sitting or not moving, you will be forced to kneel on rice until lights out.
7. You will be weighed daily, and if you are overweight, you must lose weight until you reach the hospital's desired weight for you.
8. Mealtimes are mandatory unless the matrons tell you otherwise – no snacks or sugary foods.
9. Every day at breakfast, there will be a daily subject on the board. This subject is the only thing you may talk about.
10. Hot water is a privilege that must be earned – show willingness, and you will be rewarded.
11. Mycroft House members are not permitted to enter Moriati House without prior appointment or permission.
12. Consequences for broken rules will fit the rule broken. They’re not fun, so you don’t want to find out.
13. NO DAYS OFF – NO EXCEPTIONS.
14. Medication will be forcibly administered if not voluntarily taken, by any means necessary.
16. Medical procedures are mandatory and forcible if needed.
17. You must wear the uniform provided.
18. Toiletries are a reward, not a necessity.
What the fuck is this place, and how do I get out?