Page 6 of Writhe (Wellard Asylum)

H unger is a slow kind of violence.

It doesn’t tear into you like fists or shackles, it gnaws. Picks at the edges of your thoughts; turns everything hazy and slow, like trying to wade through mud. It makes you weak. Makes you pliable.

The Doctor knows this.

That’s why I haven’t eaten in two days.

My stomach aches, a hollow, twisting thing inside me. But I won’t ask for food. I won’t beg. That’s what they want. To see me kneel, to see me crumble.

I won’t.

I sit at a table in the common room, my fingers tapping against the cold metal surface. Rina is beside me, but I barely hear her talking. The words blur together—something about a dream she had. Or maybe it was something real. It’s hard to tell with her.

Across the room, a patient—Charlie, I think—makes the mistake of asking for more food. He’s young, barely older than a teenager, with arms so thin they look breakable. He stands near the food cart, hands clenched at his sides.

“Please, I haven’t eaten,” he says, his voice trembling.

The orderly behind the cart doesn’t answer, just watches him with that blank, dead expression they all have.

Charlie tries again. “I—I just want?—”

The blow comes fast—a fist to the gut. Charlie crumples, gasping, choking on his own breath.

No one moves. No one speaks.

We all know the rules.

“Sit down,” the orderly says, shaking out his hand.

Charlie doesn’t. He’s curled on the floor, moaning softly.

His ribs rise and fall too quickly. The second hit is to the face, the sound sickening.

Wet, meaty, final. He goes limp. Not dead, but unconscious.

Maybe that’s mercy. The orderlies drag him away like a sack of meat, his feet leaving smears of something dark across the floor.

“Fucking idiot,” Rina mutters.

I say nothing.

Rina doesn’t understand. Not really. She’s been here long enough to know better, but there’s something in her that still believes things could be different. That if you play nice, they might let you go.

I know better.

She pushes her tray toward me. “Here. Take some.”

I glance down. A piece of bread, and a few spoonfuls of something gray and lumpy. It smells like glue.

I push it back. “I’m not eating that.”

Rina sighs. “You need to eat.”

“I need a lot of things.”

She doesn’t argue. She just picks up her spoon and keeps eating.

I turn my head, watching the other patients. Most of them eat in silence, heads down, movements slow and mechanical. Like prisoners.

Because that’s what we are.

Someone sits across from me. Another patient—I don’t remember his name. He looks at me, his eyes too bright, too eager. I already hate him.

“You’re the one who mouthed off in the group,” he says. “That was?—”

“Don’t talk to me,” I cut in.

He blinks. “I was just saying?—”

“I don’t care.”

His mouth snaps shut. A moment later, he stands and leaves.

Rina smirks. “You’re really good at making friends.”

“Why would I want friends?”

Her smirk fades. She doesn’t answer.

I lean back in my chair, pressing my hands against my stomach as it twists. The Doctor did this, and I hate him for it.

The hunger doesn’t go away. It doesn’t fade into the background like the constant buzzing of the fluorescent lights or the distant hum of patients murmuring to themselves.

It stays, a living thing inside me, clawing at my ribs, making my thoughts sluggish and irritable.

I flex my fingers against the table, counting the seconds between each breath.

If I focus on something, anything, I can pretend I don’t feel the weakness creeping into my limbs.

Across from me, Rina watches with that knowing look, like she’s waiting for me to break. I won’t.

“Seriously, just eat the damn bread.” She pushes the tray toward me again. “They already won. You think starving yourself makes you strong?”

I roll my eyes and shove the tray back. “I think it makes me not their fucking dog.”

Her lips press together, but she doesn’t argue.

She knows I’m right. No one gets food unless the doctor decides they’ve earned it.

And I haven’t earned anything, not after what I said in the group.

Not after the way I looked at him like I could see through the paper-thin mask of civility he wears.

Like I know exactly what he is—a snake. A surgeon cutting us apart piece by piece just to see what makes us tick.

I dig my nails into my palms and force my gaze away, scanning the room. A few patients pick at their food with shaking fingers, others shovel it down like they’re afraid it’ll be taken from them. The ones who misbehave sit with empty trays, like me .

Rina keeps eating, her spoon scraping against the bottom of the bowl. I watch her movements, the way her fingers tremble slightly as she grips the spoon. She’s been here longer than me—knows the rules better—but she’s still afraid.

That should mean something.

I don’t ask what they did to her. She doesn’t ask me what they’ve done to me.

That’s the unspoken rule.

A chair scrapes against the floor, and I glance up as another patient sits down at the table beside Rina. He’s a short little thing with eyes that never settle on one thing for too long.

His name is Ollie, I remember that much.

He picks at a piece of bread, tearing it apart instead of eating it. “So, what do you think they’ll do to him?”

“Who?” Rina asks.

He gestures toward the spot where Charlie had been standing before he got his face bashed in. “ Him . Think he’ll wake up?”

Rina shrugs. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether they care enough to fix him.”

Ollie huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He tosses the torn-up pieces of bread onto his tray, then leans back in his chair, studying me. “You ever think about it?”

I narrow my eyes. “Think about what?”

“Dying.”

The question isn’t surprising. Not here .

I don’t answer right away. I think about James, about the way the doctor had smiled when he asked me if I thought I was just like him.

James isn’t dead. He’s just waiting. Trapped.

Would that be worse?

I finally look back at Ollie. “No,” I lie.

His lips twitch like he doesn’t believe me. “Yeah,” he says. “Me neither.”

None of us believe in each other. We just pretend.

I don’t go straight to my room after dinner, not that I really had dinner. But sitting there, watching the others eat while my stomach gnawed at itself, was too much.

The halls are quiet at this time. Most patients are in their rooms winding down before lights out.

By the time I push open my door, my head is throbbing. Hunger makes everything feel stretched thin, like my body is burning through itself just to keep me moving. I lock the door behind me and lean against it, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.

I almost don’t notice him at first.

He’s sitting on the floor by my bed, legs crossed, fingers nervously plucking at the hem of his too-thin sweater. The sight of another body in my space should jolt me, should make me react, but I just . . . pause. He’s not like the others.

Not like the doctors, the orderlies, the patients who scrape by with barely enough life left in them to speak. He’s different.

His hair is dark, shaggy, and a little too long, like he’s overdue for a cut.

His face is sharp, cheekbones hollowed in a way that suggests he’s missed more meals than me.

And his eyes. God, his eyes are the first thing that really hit me.

Big, downcast, the kind of sad that doesn’t just sit on the surface.

The kind that’s lived in the marrow of his bones for years.

He looks up at me and, for some reason, I don’t tell him to get the fuck out.

Instead, I say, “You lost?”

The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not quite a smile.

“No.” His voice is quiet, hesitant. Like he’s waiting for me to tell him he shouldn’t be here—he should leave.

I should tell him to, but he reaches into his sleeve, pulls out something small, and holds it out to me.

A pack of crackers and a bottle of water.

I stare, and it takes me longer than it should to react. “Where the hell did you get this?”

He shrugs, looking down at his lap. “Does it matter?”

I snatch the crackers from his hand before he can change his mind. My fingers shake as I rip the plastic open, shoving a stale, salty bite into my mouth so fast I almost choke. My body is starving, past the point of pride.

The moment the first bite hits my tongue, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My legs feel weak, so I slide down onto the floor, sitting across from him. The crackers taste like cardboard, but I eat every single one.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just watches .

And I let him.

When I finally slow down, licking the salt from my lips, I meet his gaze again. “You got a name?”

He hesitates, like he’s weighing whether he should tell me. Then he says, “Theo.”

Theo.

I roll the name around in my head. It suits him. Feels warm. Familiar, even though I know I’ve never seen him before.

I take a sip of the water, letting it cool my throat before I ask, “Why are you in here?”

His eyes flick away. He doesn’t answer right away, his fingers twisting the hem of his sweater tighter. Then, softly, he admits, “Same reason as you, probably.”

I let out a sharp breath of laughter. “Doubt it.”

His gaze lifts again, cautious. “And why’s that?”

“Because I belong here.”

He studies me for a long moment, his lips parting like he might say something, then closing again. Finally, he says, “So do I.”

I should tell him to leave.

My room isn’t a place for strays, and I don’t have the patience for people who whisper like they’re afraid to take up space. But Theo doesn’t feel like the others. He’s not begging for attention, not pushing me to talk. He just sits there, silent, watching me like he’s trying to figure me out.

It’s annoying.

But it was not annoying enough to make me want him gone .

I stretch my legs out, the cold floor seeping into my skin through my thin socks. “You gonna stare all night, or are you actually gonna tell me why you’re here?”

Theo shifts, tucking his knees up toward his chest. The movement makes him seem even smaller, like he’s trying to fold in on himself. His fingers tremble slightly as he picks at a loose thread in his sweater. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “I guess I never really belonged anywhere else.”

His voice is soft, barely above a whisper, but there’s something underneath it that catches me off guard. A sadness that feels . . . familiar.

I exhale sharply. “That’s not an answer.”

He looks up at me then, his lips twitching with something that isn’t quite a smile. “Neither was yours.”

A bark of laughter escapes me before I can stop it. Shit. He’s right.

I shift, resting my elbow on my knee, tilting my head as I study him. Up close, I can see the hollowness in his cheeks, the sharp angles of his jaw. He looks sickly pale under the harsh fluorescents.

“You don’t talk to many people, do you?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not really.”

I hum, tapping my fingers against my knee. “Then maybe you should be honest with me.”

His brows knit together slightly. “What do you mean?”

I lean forward, just enough to watch the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

“You slipped into my room, gave me food, and now you’re sitting here looking like you don’t know what the hell to do with yourself.

” My voice drops slightly, a lazy smirk curling at the edge of my lips. “What do you want from me, Theo?”

He tenses, his shoulders stiffening. I can practically see his mind scrambling for an answer, for an excuse, but he doesn’t give one. Instead, he just holds my gaze. And then, quietly, he says, “I don’t know.”

I don’t know why that answer makes something in my chest tighten. It should be pathetic, but somehow, it’s not. Somehow, it makes me want to keep him. I sit back against the door, fingers trailing over the empty plastic wrapper in my lap. “You’re weird,” I mutter.

Theo lets out a breath of laughter, the sound barely there, like he’s surprised by it himself. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

For the first time in days, my stomach doesn’t ache as much. And for some fucked-up reason, I think I might let him stay. Theo stays longer than he should. I know it, he knows it, but neither of us move.

The room is quiet, the kind of silence that fills the space between breaths, stretching thin over the hum of white noise. I should be questioning him, should be asking how the hell he got in here, why he’s suddenly so interested in me, why he gave me food like he knew I was starving.

But I don’t, because I don’t want to break this. Whatever this is.

He’s leaning against the edge of my bed now, close enough that if I stretched my legs just a little further, my foot would brush against his thigh. He keeps his hands in his lap, fingers twisting together nervously. Like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

It’s almost endearing.

I drag my tongue across my lower lip, letting my head tip back against the wall. “You do this often?”

Theo glances at me, slowly and carefully. “Do what?”

“Break into girls’ rooms at night.”

His lips twitch, something wry pulling at the edges. “Only the dangerous ones.”

I huff out a laugh, the sound dry. “Smart move.”

He shrugs. “I don’t think you’ll kill me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

For the first time, his gaze flickers with something almost playful. “You’re hungry. You wouldn’t waste the energy.”

I blink. Then, before I can stop it, I laugh again. A real one this time. A startled thing that scrapes its way up my throat before I can swallow it down.

He looks proud of himself.

Cocky, almost.

I narrow my eyes at him, fighting the curve of my lips. “You’re lucky I don’t have the energy to strangle you.”

Theo grins, but there’s something softer beneath it. Something that makes my stomach twist, and not in the way hunger does.

“I should go,” he murmurs after a beat.

I don’t like how the words feel in my chest. I shift against the floor, watching him as he pushes himself up onto his feet. He moves like he’s always expecting something to knock him down. Like he’s bracing for it.

“Bed checks are soon,” he adds.

I should say “good,” should tell him to get the hell out before he gets caught and drags me into whatever mess he’s tangled in. But instead, what comes out is, “Will I see you again?”

Theo hesitates, just for a second. But then he gives me the smallest, most hesitant nod. “Yeah,” he says. “If you want me to.”

I don’t know why my throat feels so tight. I don’t know why I do want him to. But I don’t question it. Instead, I just watch as he moves toward the door, slipping into the shadows like he was never even here. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone. Even if I probably should.