Page 117 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

It always seems to go the bad way for Riley.

Troy gets two more pills and this time positions them between the tips of his index and middle fingers, holding them there. ‘Do this,’ he instructs, and Riley copies him. He almost drops them but catches them with shaky hands, sorely determined not to fuck up more than he has. ‘Now, push your fingers down your throat and let go of ‘em. Then drink the water.’

Riley does as he’s told.

It’s not nice, but his fingers go down fine and when he separates them, the pills stay put. He quickly drinks water.

The pills slide down.

Success.

Riley doesn’t smile, never has for Troy, but Troy actually gives him one, pats his shoulder. ‘Good job. Let me know if you need stronger ones.’

✴

CHAPTER TWELVE

Riley takes the pills every day and it does help the pain in his skull, but the scents don’t fade at all. He can smell everything.

Fabric. Moisture. Wood. Metal. Breath. Food. Waste. Stone.

Some nights he cries himself to sleep, stuffing toilet paper up his nose, but it doesn’t work. He can smell through his mouth.

After two months, Troy tells him, ‘You need to eat more.’

Riley blinks stupidly, doesn’t understand. ‘What?’

‘You’re too skinny,’ Troy clarifies. ‘I’ll tell them to start giving you adult portions.’ Troy studies Riley, who wishes Troy would just know by looking at him what is wrong. ‘Are you…?’ he asks, trailing off.

Riley’s heart leaps, pounding to plead, Am I what? Smelling everything on earth? Yes, and it’s only getting worse. I can smell when you’re angry from upstairs. I can smell when people don’t like me. I can smell the moon before she rises, and I can smell the bodies you buried miles away. Help me. Please help me!

But he doesn’t say any of that.

He stays silent.

Troy shrugs. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’

✴

Riley is given bigger portions of food, but what was once blandly passable is now revoltingly unappealing to him. Even water tastes of foul metal, hurts his teeth and makes his brain zing. There’s nothing he likes. Everything is drenched in oil and white salt that makes him retch.

The cook gets angry.

‘My food not good enough for you, huh?’ the old man demands when Riley, once again, fails to clean his plate.

Troy isn’t happy.

‘I got more important shit going on than you staging a hunger strike,’ he informs Riley when the cook runs telling tales. Troy is dressed differently tonight. Smarter, sharper. He looks good. Riley isn’t great with ages, has so little for comparison beyond books and other scraps of world knowledge, but he thinks Troy is maybe in his mid-thirties. ‘Why aren’t you eating?’

Riley sits on the ground-floor steps of the staircase leading up.

He spends a lot of time here in this invisible space between worlds.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, head lowered.

‘I don’t want an apology; I want answers. You’re wasting away, boy. I can’t have that. Is it the headaches? Are you sick?’

‘I’m…’ Riley’s eyes fill with tears. ‘I don’t know.’