How was your nap?
It’s Nolan I find in front of me when I open my aching eyes, perched on the edge of my mattress and watching me like a total creep.
Or maybe like a total mamá.
He smiles.
I wish I could smile back.
I wish I could at least tell him that I want to smile back.
“How was your nap?”
Was that what that was?
When did I even get here?
Did he bring me here? Did Dr. Singh? Did I get here on my own?
I consider asking. I have enough signs to manage it without needing to find my notebook. We’ve been practicing a little. But I’m still so tired. Even my fingers feel tired.
It’s not like it matters anyway.
Nolan exhales hard, like when someone’s called him a bad boy after he’s tried so hard to be good. I can actually see the way his worry for me reshapes his face. It hurts to look at, but I don’t let myself close my eyes. The least I can do is bear witness to the pain I’m putting him through.
He brushes his fingertips over my forehead, like he’s pushing back stray hair despite there being none. I hope he can’t tell I still haven’t showered. “You missed dinner.”
Probably for the best...
“I brought some up for you. It’s not great.
All they have here is, like, ready-made food.
Like the frozen meals with a shit ton of sodium and junk.
I think I might ask if I can cook dinner.
I didn’t ask before I made that breakfast, but…
I don’t know. Anyway. I brought you some.
” He lifts the plate, showing off the thick slice of lasagna in the center of it.
It’s suddenly all I can smell. It turns my stomach, a wave of nausea rolling through me both from disgust and hunger.
I swallow the spit pooling in my mouth, mentally begging my body not to throw up right now.
“Please, Matty? You haven’t eaten all day. ”
I could try to lie. I could tell him I succeeded earlier when I went to find food, before Dr. Singh interrupted me. I remember what was in the fridge the last time I looked. I could pretend-
“Please?” he whispers.
I look up to find his eyes filling with tears.
That’s not what I want.
It’s the last thing I want.
I can eat for him.
I can do that.
It’s just lasagna. If I scrape some of the sauce off and take small bites, it won’t be that bad. Maybe a little slimy. A little too acidic. The cheese might be gooey. But it’ll be… fine.
I nod and flick my hand to let him know I need a little space to sit up. He nearly bounces when moving to give me the extra room, his excitement obvious. I try to ignore how itchy it makes me. How heavy and exhausted.
I need to be better for him. For Bryce. For Dr. Singh, even.
I need to be better.
I will be better.
I can be better.
I can, I can, I can.
I manage half the slice of lasagna before my gag reflex overtakes my own stubbornness. I sign, I’m thirsty, and Nolan runs off to grab me something from the kitchen.
My throat is burning with shame and lingering bile by the time he returns. My stomach is empty again, my cheeks tacky with the tears I quickly swiped away.
I tell him that I’m full and he still smiles, saying it’ll probably take a while before my stomach can handle a lot of food at once. It’s normal for all of us. The doctor said it’ll change. He’s smiling. Looking relieved.
I hope my stomach doesn’t growl.
He scoots even closer to me than when I first awoke, starting to stroke my hair. I move my head until I can press my face to his stomach, breathing in the scent of this house’s detergent.
It’s so strange not to smell the scents of the compound on him.
No generic soap, no lingering musk from cum or sweat, no tang of blood or lube.
Even when our blankets down in our slave quarters were fresh from the laundry, the scent of the fabric was bland - not exactly a blank slate, just something too muted to detect.
Within hours, they’d be dirty again anyway.
This detergent smells like flowers. A flower I can’t find the name of, buried somewhere in the mess inside my mind. A purple one.
Lavender.
That’s what it smells like - lavender.
It’s nice.
Different, but nice.
A good thing.
My eyes fall closed, a fresh wave of exhaustion washing over me.
Mamá never could keep her lavender plants alive.
I wonder if she managed to when they made her go back to Venezuela.
I wonder if all she needed was soil from her home.