Page 6 of Twisted Violet

Nothing good ever does.

TWO

ROME

The platein my hand is still warm.

Piled high with a bunch of sugary shit she loves so much.

French toast, orange juice, and a double chocolate chip muffin that’s close to the size of her head.

She hates eggs, so the only protein on the plate is two strips of bacon, and even that barely qualifies considering it’s mostly composed of grease and salt.

How this girl has managed to survive on carbs alone is a fucking mystery to me, but if tempting her with this crap is the only way to get her to eat something, then so be it.

Dallas tried to get her to eat a couple of hours ago, but that blew up in his face spectacularly, and he ended up storming off to “get some air”.

Now it’s my turn and, unlike my much more good-natured best friend, I’m not going to let her bratty attitude stop me from getting the job done.

I knock once.

No answer.

Figures.

I turn the handle and nudge the door open with my foot, without waiting for permission. It’s a dick move, but she gave up privacy the second she decided to stop eating.

The room’s darker than it was earlier. The heavy curtains are drawn, and I can barely make out her silhouette on the other side of the room. She’s lying on the bed, facing away from me with headphones on, and pillows surrounding her.

I take two steps inside and close the door behind me.

“Get up.” I order, my voice flat and clipped.

She doesn’t react. Just keeps staring at the wall, like I’m not even here.Fucking ridiculous.

She’s obviously still pissed we dragged her out of the hospital. Sulking because we made a call she didn’t agree with, even if it was for her benefit.

I roll my eyes and take another step toward the bed, already running through the speech I’m gonna have to give. Something short and to the point about how we’re not her enemies, how we didn’t do it to hurt her, and how this isn’t personal.

But then I see it - the tremble in her shoulders, and everything in me stills.

She’s not sulking. Not pouting. Not staging a silent protest. She’smourning.And I feel like a fucking idiot.

She doesn’t need food. She needs her world back.

This sad little pile of sugar and grease won’t fix whatever is going on inside her head, and it definitely won’t erase the image of her sister lying in that hospital bed.

Istand there a second longer, staring at her back, thinking how fucked it is that all I have to offer her is this plate.

Not that it even matters, not that she’d expect anything more from me.

It’s not like Violet and I are friends.

She’s bratty, impulsive, too trusting for her own good.

She calls me bossy, says I’ve got control issues, and jokes that I probably alphabetize my socks.

But right now, she won’t even turn to look at me, and that concerns me more than it should.