“We’ll bring broth in an hour, just tell me what flavor.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“We’ll bring it anyway.”
“And if I don’t eat?”
She met my eyes. “Then we’ll try again later. But you need nutrition. We prefer you eat so we don’t have to intervene.”
Intervene.
That word meant feeding tubes and decisions I didn’t control.
I exhaled slowly. “Fine. I’ll have chicken broth.”
She gave a small nod, a remote, and stepped out.
The quiet rushed back in.
I stared at the ceiling and listened to my own breathing until I was annoyed. I turned on the television and found an old movie.Devil In A Blue Dressto be exact.
I drifted in and out of sleep, and that happened for the first couple of days.
Woke up. Ate fresh fruit. Slept. Woke up again to something good to eat.
Every time I woke up, the routine was the same.
Vitals.
Vitamin injections.
Medication.
Warm tea instead of alcohol.
They walked me outside once a day with a nurse nearby. Not hovering, just close enough to grab me if my legs decided to fold.
Then sleep again.
It was repetitive.
Safe.
And weirdly unsettling.
When you live in chaos long enough, safety feels fake.
My brain kept looking for something to fight.
Why did they bring me here?
Why does that nigga think he can control me?
Why didn’t my family tell me I was royalty?
But the longer I stayed here, the more something uncomfortable started creeping in.
Nobody was hurting me.
