Page 29 of Devoured

She stalked off, muttering under her breath about how much she hated this job.

We stood there for a second, stunned.

“Welcome to St. Dymphna,”Marion said, her mouth twisting into something that might’ve been a smile—if it wasn’t so bitter.

We made it to the main ward as breakfast was winding down. The cafeteria had that after-rush feel—trays cleared, staff already cleaning. I thought we’d missed it, but the kitchen worker took one look at Marion’s face and scraped together what was left. Small mercies came when you looked broken enough.

I got my tray—rubbery scrambled eggs, dry toast, apple juice in a tiny cup—and found a table near the back wall where I could watch without feeling exposed. My stomach was too empty to care that the eggs were cold.

“Tuesday special.”Marion slid into the seat across from me, favoring her left side.

“This is food?”I asked her with a sad face.

She laughed—quick, surprised—then cut it off.

“Careful,”Marion said, grinning. “People might think you’re human.”

That’s when Dr. Alan appeared beside our table. Her smile stretched too wide, and her lipstick had bled into the fine lines around her mouth. “Zahra, darling, how are we feeling this morning? I do hope you managed some rest after yesterday’s excitement.”

“I am… fine.”I stuttered as I replied.

“Wonderful. And the medication? No dizziness, no strange dreams?”She tilted her head a bit and asked.

She tilted her head, studying my face like I was something growing in a petri dish. Her eyes swept over my bruised jaw but didn’t linger, as if she was cataloging damage without concern.

“Nothing stranger than being locked in solitary overnight,”I said.

Her laugh tinkled like breaking glass, like it belonged to someone who’d forgotten how real laughter sounded.

“Oh, that was just a little misunderstanding. These things happen when patients get... overexcited.”She said looking at Marion, who was trying her best to avoid her gaze.

She pulled out a folded note, her pink-polished nails gleaming under the harsh lights as she clipped it to my tray with a crisp snap.

“Now, I have some lovely news. Dr. Varnar would like to see you tonight. 10:30.”

Cold dread washed through me. “At night?”

“He keeps special hours for special patients.”Dr. Alan leaned closer, her perfume wrapping around me in a cloud of sickly-sweet vanilla. It clung to my throat like syrup. “You should feel honored. He doesn’t offer evening sessions to everyone.”

Across the table, Marion’s fork scraped against her tray—ugly, harsh, metal on plastic. Her shoulders had gone rigid like someone had flipped a switch and turned her into stone.

“Is something wrong, Marion?”

Marion stared down at her untouched eggs.

“No, Dr. Alan.”She said like a student replying to a teacher.

“Good.”

Dr. Alan straightened slowly, smoothing her white coat with a long, deliberate stroke, like she was brushing something dirty off herself.

“Dr. Varnar is so looking forward to your session, Zahra. He has such wonderful plans for your treatment.”

She walked away, heels clicking sharply on the linoleum.

I turned to Marion, who hadn’t moved a muscle. She looked carved from marble.

“What was that about?”