Page 21

Rosabelle

Chapter 21

I might be dreaming.

The problem is, my eyes are open. The problem is, the glare of overhead lighting is unromantic. The problem is that the steady beep of medical monitors winds a tension in me that coils only tighter even though my hair is loose, freed from its knot. The problem is that I am not safe even though my body feels stronger, better in a way I can’t qualify. I close my eyes, forcing myself to take a deep, steady breath, but the hallucination intensifies, my senses attacked by the mouthwatering scent of flame-broiled meat; my stomach contracting at the promise of food. The honeyed aromas of sautéed onions and garlic fill my head. I smell mint and basil. Lemon. Pepper. Cheese.

Delirious.

I open my eyes.

I can hear my heart beating in my chest; its movements echoed out loud by the kind of machine I haven’t seen in years. The equipment in this room is old, except that it looks new. It hadn’t occurred to me to consider that they might not possess the same technological advancements here. I frown. Where?

Not a dream.

I tell myself that I have arrived in The New Republic.

Phase one complete.

I’d breathe a sigh of relief except that I can’t remember landing here. The details recounting my entry into enemy territory do not exist; where there should be memories there is only blankness. I have been at the mercy of the rebels in a state of unconsciousness, and I have no idea how I might’ve exposed myself or what they might’ve done to me. I implore my mind to use reason: remain calm. Stay the course. An agent of The Reestablishment has been assigned to contact me within forty-eight hours of my arrival.

I have no idea how long I’ve been here.

My immediate priority is to find a way out.

“Hey,” he says, holding out the glass. “Seriously, it’s just water.”

I go very still.

James is sitting next to my hospital bed, magically whole. I’d noticed him earlier, but as I hadn’t decided yet whether I was dreaming, I hadn’t known how to account for him. His presence is so vivid he feels dreamlike, his energy taking up most of the room. There’s a weight to him that I like. He seems solid. Unshakable. But without a thick layer of blood and grime obscuring his face, he’s much harder to look at, and I struggle to meet his probing stare. He’s studying me with a flat, slightly curious expression. He is otherwise unreadable.

Not a dream.

He walked in a few minutes ago with only a glance in my direction, wheeling in a table piled with plates of food the likes of which I haven’t seen in years.

He’s still holding out the water glass, waiting for me to take it. His eyes are a kaleidoscope of blues; like the sea, at turns tranquil and turbulent. Right now he’s unhurried and easy in his body. I have a strange thought: I wish I could gather up his calm and pull it over me, sleep beneath it as if it were a blanket.

“Rosabelle,” he says. For the first time, he cracks a smile. “C’mon. I swear it’s not poison.”

“I don’t understand,” I whisper.

“Can you sit up a little more?”

“Why?”

“You need to eat,” he says. “I brought you food.”

“No.” I say it like a question.

“Yes,” he says emphatically. “Come on. Sit up a little, but don’t move too fast.”

“I don’t understand,” I say again.

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why are you being kind to me?”

He places the water glass on the tray in front of me, then sits back in his seat, the smile gone. In fact, his face shuts off altogether, and this bothers me more than the offer of food. I sit up without thinking, as if the action will return the smile to his face.

The smile does not return.

“I’m not being kind to you,” he says. “This is called being a regular person. I’m not going to let you starve.”

I swallow, surprised to find that my throat isn’t dry. Pain radiates all throughout my body, hunger clawing at my insides. I stare at the table of food, allowing myself to believe, for the first time, that this might really be happening. I shake my head. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“You never answered my question, by the way,” James says. I look up at the sudden shift in his tone. His shoulders seem tighter, his eyes tenser. “How long has it been since you ate a proper meal?”

My heart thunders in my chest at that question, and when the monitor mirrors this change James looks up at the machine and I panic. I force myself down into nothingness, disconnecting my body from my mind, crushing what’s left of me into dust. I need to pull myself together and remain that way. I can’t afford any more missteps.

When my heart rate slows I look at him and say, “Three days.”

“Three days,” he repeats.

I nod, as if this is normal. “I haven’t eaten in three days.”

His face has gone cold. His voice is hard. “And what did you eat three days ago?”

Mushrooms. “I don’t understand why this is relevant.”

“Look, will you please just drink the water?” he snaps, his composure breaking.

His anger surprises me.

I look at him, then around the room, my eyes flicking over everything in the bright, sterile space. I consider the situation. This is clearly a holding cell refitted with a hospital bed. There’s a massive, generic painting of a summer field taking up most of one wall, behind which is likely some kind of observational deck. I have no doubt that I’m being watched by any number of people right now. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but James’s physical recovery points to a lapse in time long enough to accommodate recuperation and cooperation. He’s had hours to shower, to eat, to sleep, to restore the healthy glow in his skin. This means he’s had time to reconvene with his officials, which means they know what he knows. He hasn’t come to visit me without authorization; he came in here with a plan.

This food is not a mercy, I realize with some relief.

It’s a test.

I tell myself: A normal, hungry person with no ulterior motives would not be afraid of eating freely offered food.

I reach for the water glass with an unsteady hand, spilling it slightly as I lift it to my lips. I take a sip and close my eyes, savoring it. The water is room temperature, easy to drink, gentle on my throat, but it takes me by surprise to realize that I’m not actually thirsty. I look up at the ancient IV bags and the answer is obvious: they’ve been giving me intravenous fluids. That’s why I feel better. Clearer. Lighter.

I put the glass down.

James pushes a plate of chicken in front of me, the meat already cut into bite-sized pieces, as if I were a child. The sight of it does something to me, threatens to drown me.

“It’s probably cold now,” he says, apologetic.

As if I would care. I look up at him, trying to keep my heart rate steady. “You’re just going to watch me eat?”

“Yes.”

This is a kind of torture I did not anticipate. Everything about this moment feels charged and strange, and fear clenches in my gut. My hunger is something I can only control when I’m starving. Sometimes the starvation is a mercy, stripping out my insides so completely it’s easier for me to shut down, remain empty. I have only faded memories of being full. I don’t know what my body will do when I feed it, and this unknown scares me.

I pick up the fork with trepidation, aware of the many eyes that must be watching this moment. My hand trembles a little, and I hide this by spearing the meat more forcefully than I’d like, then lifting it to my lips with hesitation. My mouth waters automatically, the savory scents of fat and salt making me ill with longing and guilt.

Rosa, what does meat taste like?

My eyes flutter. My chest clenches.

Rosa, we’re having a banquet. You sit there, and I’ll sit here, and we’ll pretend my bedsheet is the tablecloth, okay?

Okay , I said, taking my seat. What’s on the menu?

The chef has prepared us a roast chicken! Do you like chicken, Rosa? I saw a picture of it in a book—

My stomach churns with self-hatred. Roiling with need and disgust. My hand trembles again.

Rosa, that’s private , she’d said, frowning as I uncrumpled a piece of scrap paper. I’d found it while stripping her sheets. It was a list, and I’d read the title and the first two line items before handing it back to her, my heart racing.

Things I Will Eat One Day , it read.

chikin

candy

I force myself to stare at the speared chicken on my fork, force myself to part my lips. I inhale through my mouth and worry I’m going to be sick. I feel my stomach pitch and I fight the compulsion, my chest heaving slightly.

“Rosabelle?” he says.

I look up, horrified to realize my eyes are swimming.

No.

I am dead inside. I’ve been dead inside for years.

“Hey—”

Die , I tell myself.

Die.

I force the piece of chicken into my mouth, force myself to chew it, force myself to taste it.

What’s it like, Rosa? Is it very delicious?

I hear the monitors from far away, the machines screaming as if through layers of fog. The meat feels strange in my mouth. Foreign. Soft. This is real chicken, I realize. Real meat from an animal, not lab-grown. It has a texture I haven’t experienced since childhood. My teeth seem brand-new to me, sharp. The flavors are too bright, too much. I heave, clap a hand over my mouth. Force it down. Spear another piece.

“Hey,” he says again, a note of panic in his voice now, “you don’t have to eat it—I just thought—”

Do you think we’ll ever get to eat real meat, Rosa?

I like the bread they give us and I don’t mind the porridge, really, but remember they gave us eggs once, and those came from a chicken, and one time they gave us milk, and that comes from a cow, so maybe—

I push the next piece into my mouth, knuckling through the nausea. My jaw is tired already, the repetitive motion robotic. My skin is heating and cooling, my hands clammy. A light sweat has broken out across my forehead. Pain wrenches my gut as I swallow.

I spear another piece of chicken.

“ Stop ,” he says, prying the fork out of my hand. He sounds different now. Scared. “You don’t have to eat it. I’m sorry—”

“I’ll eat it,” I say. My eyes are hot. Wet. I reach for the chicken with my bare hands, forcing another piece into my mouth. “I’ll eat it.”

“Rosabelle, stop—”

He grabs my dirty hands, forces me to look at him. Resolve trembles inside of me, shuddering up my throat. My face is damp. My heart is beating outside of my chest.

“I’m sorry,” he says desperately. His eyes are wild. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to—”

I feel it, the way my body seizes in the silence, and I try, I really do, but I can’t control it.

I throw up all over him.