Page 30 of Devoured

Marion poked at her eggs with the tip of her fork, eyes far away.

“Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”I said and pursed my lips.

“And you ask too many questions.”Marion huffed.

She pushed her tray away like the food had turned radioactive.

“I’ve got group therapy. See you at lunch.”

The morning dragged like time itself was reluctant to move.

Group therapy with Dr. Alan was the worst part. We sat in a ring of ancient chairs, their metal legs uneven and creaky, while she lobbed questions no one wanted to catch.

But she kept looking at me.

Not glancing. Staring.

Every time I lifted my head, there she was, blue eyes locked on mine, her lips curled into that unreadable little smile.

When our eyes met, she’d shift smoothly to another patient, ask them about their childhood or nightmares or whatever, but within seconds, those cold eyes would slide right back to me.

It made my skin itch. Made me want to crawl out of it.

By the time it ended, my shirt clung damply to my back, and my scalp felt clammy.

Recreation wasn’t much better.

We played checkers with missing pieces in a room that smelled like sweat and lemon-scented cleaner.

Dr. Alan drifted through the space like a ghost.

She’d stop just behind my chair—so close I could feel the heat of her body and the weight of her watching—then vanish again before I could say anything.

Like she was just letting me know: she was there. Always there. Always watching.

During med check, the nurses moved like clockwork, asking the same questions in the same order, like they were reciting a script. But Dr. Alan stood in the doorway the entire time, her gaze fixed on me like she was memorizing the slope of my face, the shape of my hesitation.

Lunch finally came. The tension in my chest refused to ease. The thought of tonight’s appointment throbbed at the back of my mind like a bruise you can’t stop pressing.

Marion found me at an empty table and dropped into the seat across from me. She looked on edge, worried. We sat in silence for a moment. I could tell she was barely holding on. Like there was a secret she had to tell me.

“This appointment with Varnar.”She finally spoke.

“What about it?”I asked.

Marion leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the table so tight her knuckles went bone-white.

“He usually waits. Gives new patients time to... settle in.”The way she said settle in made something crawl down my spine. Like she meant something far more sinister.

“What happens at these night appointments?”I asked.

“Listen to me,”Marion said urgently. She looked around the cafeteria, nervous and jittery. Her eyes bounced from table to table like someone might be listening.

“Fake sick. Tell them you’re throwing up, having a panic attack, anything. Just don’t go,”she insisted.

“You’re scaring me,”I admitted.