Page 78 of The Turning of the Tables

I tried to lift my head, to move my nose away from the smells, and failed, darkness washing over me and blissfully taking away the smells.

I smelledblood and sweat and shit and bile.

My stomach gnawed at my ribs.

My throat burned.

Every joint in every limb throbbed, my pulse beating through my bones.

I tried to weep.

I do not know if I succeeded.

Twice in my life,I’ve prayed for death. This was one of those times.

Neither time was my prayer answered.

It was hot.Too hot.

Stifling.

But there was no sweat.

I could only cool myself by gasping air through my mouth. Air that was cooler outside my body than in.

It made me retch.

I put my hands, my feet on cement to cool them.

They were odd. Ineffective.

I was broken.

Tired.

So very tired.

I didn’t knowhow long it was before they brought me food. Maybe hours, maybe days. I didn’t know anymore how much time had passed or what shape I’d been in for most of it. It was oatmeal, the lumps thick and slightly nauseating, with too much cinnamon and sugar. It assaulted my nose, making me sneeze.

The spoon they’d given me was a rounded, soft plastic. The kind of spoon you’d give to a toddler. I guess so I didn’t cut myself if I started shifting partway through my oatmeal. I didn’t, which was a goddamn miracle as far as I was concerned. There was a gnawing pit in my stomach that told me I hadn’t eaten in a while. A day or so, maybe.

I had no idea what day it was or how long I’d been here, my body trying to destroy itself through hunger or transformation or both. My shaking hands felt too big, my wrists too bony, and a look down at my torso suggested that I’d lost maybe ten pounds, which made me wonder how much of that was to fuel the constant shifting and how much was because I hadn’t been able to eat.

I didn’t remember the last time they’d fed me. If they’d fed me.

I couldn’t imagine they hadn’t given mesomething. The body—human or shifter—can’t go more than a few days without water, so they’d hydrated me somehow. I assumed they’d fed me, as well.

Or maybe I’d just forgotten what normal hunger feltlike, given that my internal organs had moved and changed multiple times.

I finished the oatmeal, still hungry, wondering why that was all they’d given me.

I had the answer to that question about half an hour later when I threw it all up again post-shift.

I was tootired and sore to cry, although the tightness in my chest felt like I had been. Maybe I had. I had no idea what my body did anymore. How it worked.

I wanted a blanket.

They’d given me at least one before, but I think I’d shredded it, judging from the small scraps of fabric scattered around the room.