“Make sure you’re eating and getting lots of vitamins and minerals. If you end up back in here with the same issue, I’m calling for a psych evaluation. You won’t have a choice on seeking therapy or not because I’ll make you.”
I try not to roll my eyes at the doctor, who has been a lot kinder to me than most of the other staff here. Still, she believes I’m starving myself, which pisses me off.
“Got it,” I say.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this good, probably since I arrived. I don’t look back when I leave the medical center and walk back to the dorms slowly. A few students linger in the corridors, but none of them pay me any attention. As soon as I’m inside my room, I sigh, almost happy to be in my own space again.
I’m surprised to see that the floor has been cleaned, the smell of bleach tickling my nostrils. I notice the mattress on the bed and remember it being delivered, but everything after that is a little fuzzy. On the mattress is a brand new sheet, and a bag is sitting there. I briefly wonder if Quinton had something to do with the room being cleaned. I don’t want to owe him anything else.
Curious, I walk over to the bed and peer inside the bag. Its contents include a couple of granola bars, small bags of trail mix, and two candy bars. There’s a small note at the bottom, and I really hate that this bag makes me smile.
A person should not be this excited over something so mundane, but I am. Opening the note, I read it back to myself.
You owe me another hour.
I’ll collect at my leisure.
-Q
I roll my eyes. Of course, he would expect something in return for cleaning the room and getting me a small bag of food. Almost apprehensively, I open one of the granola bars and sniff it. After eating bad and expired food, I’ve developed a bit of PTSD toward eating. Nothing odd catches in my nostrils, so I take a bite of the bar, chewing it slowly before swallowing.
I wait for something bad to happen, for my stomach to revolt in some way, but nothing does, so I continue eating it, devouring every morsel like it’s the last thing I’ll get to eat.
A granola bar won’t sustain me, so I’ll have to make a trip to the cafeteria this morning. The idea of fighting with one of the staff is exhausting, but I’m not going to let myself end up in the hospital again.
Dusting the crumbs from my lap, I stand and gather my wits. I have to get back into a routine. As I walk to the cafeteria for breakfast, I wonder if the school had called my mother when I was sick. She never tried to call me, but I suspect if she knew, she would’ve called. The cafeteria is mostly empty when I arrive, and I walk up to the buffet, my mouth watering and my stomach rumbling.
“I don’t know who is in charge back there, but…”
“We have your breakfast ready.” The guy ignores what I was about to say and disappears into the back for a moment. When he returns, there’s a foam cup in his hand, and I look at him, puzzled how my entire breakfast could be in that single cup.
“What is this?” I ask, taking the cup.
“Breakfast. It’s got a bunch of different vegetables and fruit, as well as some vitamins and minerals. Not sure how it’s going to taste, but it’s super healthy and will give you all the nutrients you need.”
Based upon everything he’s just said, someone must’ve already talked to the cafeteria, which I didn’t want or need. I doubt it was Brittney; if she had talked to them, I’m sure I would have an actual meal in my hands right now, not a liquid version. All fingers point to Quinton or maybe even the doctor.
“This is all I get to eat?”
“You don’t need anything else. The items in that should get you through to lunch.”
I clench my teeth together to stop myself from lashing out. I’m so tired of people telling me what I do and don’t need here.
“Fine,” I grumble, instead of arguing with the man, and take my foam cup. It’s easy to find an empty table this early in the morning. Pulling the cap off the foam cup, I peer inside of it. A bright green liquid peers back at me, and I gag.
They can’t really expect me to eat this, can they? I look away from the contents of the cup, cringing at the thought of drinking it. What other option do I have? None. I have to eat, or I’ll end up back in medical, and who knows what will happen next time.