CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
ERIN
After my earlier encounter withCharlie, I avoid the cafeteria at lunch, but I can’t ignore my grumbling stomach when the siren yells again. I wait until the initial bustle subsides, hoping to slip in unnoticed while everyone’s eating.
My hopes are quickly dashed. As soon as I walk in, everyone turns to stare. At Stonybridge, I blended into the background, until Nate paid me attention. Here, I stick out.
I join the back of the food line, keeping my head down. At first glance, it looks like any other school cafeteria. However, on closer inspection, I notice that the tables and chairs are stuck to the floor, and everyone eats with silicone cutlery. Patients can’t be trusted to eat unsupervised, so security staff watch from every corner of the room, and a nurse doles out pills with food trays.
I spot Charlie. Her eyes narrow in my direction as she jabs a piece of pasta with her fork, probably pretending it’s my face.
“Here.” The nurse thrusts a small cup of pills into my hands and watches me wash them down before I continue. “Good.”
“Next,” an angry woman in a grubby apron snaps impatiently.
Unlike Stonybridge, which offers fresh food that caters to every dietary requirement and preference, the woman doesn’task what I want to eat. There’s no choice. She spoons a glob of rice onto my tray alongside a dollop of chili that smells like dog food.
A guy with red hair and a broken-looking nose swipes his fingers across his throat and mimes ‘You’re dead’ to me across the room. I gulp and try not to take it personally. He must do that to everyone, right? I continue hunting for an empty table, or at least somewhere to sit where people don’t look like they want to kill me, but my options are limited.
On one table, a group of patients talk to themselves and yell at imaginary figures. At another, an argument breaks out. A guy throws his tray and gets dragged off screaming by two white-coated men. Next to them, a group of greasy-haired patients stare blankly ahead. They chew with their mouths open and drool drips down their chins, too high on a cocktail of drugs to be aware of their surroundings or even know their own names. At the next table, I recognize Bea. She sits among a group of guys with buzz cuts, who are busy comparing cuts on their arms. Everyone else in the room avoids looking at me, hoping that I don’t pick them to sit with. Dad portrays Sunnycrest as a positive place that offers rehabilitation and a fresh start, but it’s a living hell.
My searching gaze stops on a guy at the back of the room. The same guy who mistook me for Sarah earlier. He tries to hide behind the broad shoulders of another patient, but it’s too late. I weave through the tables toward him when, suddenly, a foot knocks my legs from underneath me. I have no time to react. I topple over, landing straight on my sore knees and spray chili all over my front.
Laughter rings in my ears.
I look up to see Charlie, one hand propped on her hip in a sassy pose.
“You should be more careful,” she says, grinning smugly.
Even in asylums, you can’t get away from cliquey, mean girls.
I drop my tray with a clang and stand, wiping sauce off my chin. My cheeks are ablaze, but to my surprise, not from embarrassment. There it is again. The simmering rage. My nostrils flare in fury. The violence and suddenness of the emotion surprises me, and I squeeze my nails into my palms to stop myself from wiping the smirk off her face. This place is getting to me.
Charlie backs away a little, her confidence waning as she senses a change in me. Something flickers behind her eyes. Fear, perhaps?
“Is there a problem?” A nurse appears. “We can get you another tray, Miss Acacia.”
Anyone who didn’t already know my identity does now, officially making me a social pariah and a potential target.
How many patients have been subjected to my father’s cruel experiments and seek revenge?
“There’s no problem,” I say through gritted teeth. “Is there, Charlie?”
She glares back and shakes her head. I wonder why she’s in Sunnycrest.
The woman beckons me away. “Come along.”
I stay where I am.
“I want to speak to my father,” I demand.
“Your father has given explicit instructions that you are to complete your treatment before you have visitors,” she replies.
“He’s not a visitor,” I hiss. “He runs this fucking place!”
I’m acting entitled, but I don’t care. This has gone on for long enough. I don’t belong here with these people. I need to go home.
