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Chapter 12
Avery
By the time I finish sorting everything, it's late.
Free time and dinner are long done. In fact, I think people have already been taken back to their rooms for the evening and are fast asleep.
My stomach can't stop growling from hunger. Dizziness threatens my vision, little black dots floating in orbit, but I finish it.
I fucking finish it.
Mr. Whittingham looks up from his desk, a mouth-watering steak in front of him that Teddy had dropped off before she left for the evening. His lips curl in disappointment, and that alone is reward enough for missing out on food. The smell of his extravagant dinner is torture, but I'm hopeful that this means I won't have to come back tomorrow.
"Done?" he asks, annoyed.
I nod. "Can I leave now?"
He chews the inside of his lip, contemplating the answer. He probably wants me to stay, wondering if he can dish out another shitty task.
Finally, he grunts to himself, pressing a button on his desk. A few seconds later, a guard enters, looking at him expectedly.
"Escort Ms. White back to her room, please," he orders without glancing at me.
I breathe a sigh of relief, quickly getting to my feet. I realize it's the same guard as earlier and I give him a glare, daring him to lay hands on me.
Rolling his eyes slightly, he stands aside so I can exit, hand poised on his taser.
The two of us walk side by side to the secure part of the facility, a wave of nausea and exhaustion creeping over me. I ignore the burning feeling in my stomach as my body rips itself apart from hunger. Maybe I can just sleep it off.
My door slams closed behind me as I enter my room, feet heading straight for the bed. I lay down on my side, curling up as I try to dismiss the overwhelming thoughts of food. Never did I expect to crave the moldy-ass food they serve here. I guess when we are desperate, we do stupid things.
Laying in the darkness, I wait for sleep to take me away.
I remember when I was younger, my father used to withhold food too. Even when he didn't, it would be rare to find items in the fridge that weren't alcohol. Sleep was always my comfort, because when you are away from your thoughts, life seems easier. You could tell yourself that the nightmares are irrational. Your body will switch off and you stop feeling the tearing sensation. And best of all, for a brief few hours, you can pretend you have a different life.
A creaking noise stirs me from my thoughts, my head lifting weakly from the pillow. Oddly enough, I feel like I'm used to late night visitors now—even if it is Damon.
"What can I do for you?" I ask quietly to the shadowed figure, unfazed.
Before a reply can come, I'm hit with the smell of food. I stiffen, wondering if I'm dreaming. Perhaps I'm just hallucinating now, like parched men in the desert seeing a mirage.
"Apparently you haven't eaten today."
My spine straightens rapidly as I shoot up in bed. But it's not the confirmation of food that has my attention—it's the voice.
"Grey?" I murmur wearily.
The door softly closes before footsteps head over to the bed. I'm still in disbelief, fighting back the urge to reach out and touch him. My fingers want to check that it's truly him—I'd know instantly.
Something is placed down next to me, and I reach over, my hand finding a plate.
"It's leftovers from yesterday," Grey answers, sending emotions crashing over me.
It's him. It's definitely him.
"Thank you," I breathe out, not reaching for the food.
I wish I could see him, but the dark makes it impossible. Seconds tick by in complete silence, and I'm surprised he doesn't just leave now that he's fulfilled his reason for the visit.
