“Yes?”
“Check the hydrangeas for me,” I say. “They’re happier.”
She leaves without answering. Her shoes make reasonable sounds down the corridor. If I close my eyes, I can see the exact place she’ll stop to write another note. I can see the place she’ll lift her head and look at the ceiling like the answer would be printed there if only she loved order hard enough.
At lights-out, the corridor glows with quiet decisions. A machine breathes somewhere like a patient practising. An orderly laughs softly at a joke that will not survive scrutiny. I put the hairpin back, and the paperclip, and the slice of time. I tuck the acronym into the soft place behind my teeth and let it sit there, metal and promise.
“Soon,” I whisper to the room, and for once I mean it in exactly the way she did.
I lie on my side and watch the camera blink. I think about boats that aren’t boats, and gardens that aren’t innocent, and men who carry knives like prayers. I think about the hydrangeas, and the way they change colour depending on what you feed them.
I think about the daytheywill come for me and find the doors already open.
I think about the way I will saythank youand meantoo late.
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 againstan 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 shiftmagnified. 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.
