Page 4 of The Cannibal

“I know you prefer black, but it’s predicted to be the hottest week of the year. I figured green would be fine,” she rattled off, just not as excitedly as she may have before.

She placed a couple underthings and a corset onto the bed.

My eyes could only follow her, feeling worse since speaking.

She gave me a pitiful look. “I know, but getting dressed will help you feel better. Let the corset hold you straight for a while.” Her smile was kind, but it was because she thought I was delicate. Like reminding a sickly person to eat something of substance.

A sigh of defeat before I stood, dropping the nightgown from my shoulders.

It pooled at the floor over my feet, my body not how I remembered it. All my hard work from tending our farmhouse wasted away to bedrest, not much muscle left. The paleness was expected, as that’s how I was naturally, so my sickly state was nothing but ghostly.

No, it was the fine white line up my abdomen that gave me pause.

My fingers trembled as they ran over the raised edge. I plucked a couple stitches still yet to degrade.

“Don’t look at it.” Phoebe’s hands covered mine. “Alina.”

Reluctantly, my eyes met hers. They were glassy.

“How long,” I choked. “How long was I asleep?”

Phoebe’s lip trembled. “Six months.”

She forced the undergarments into my hands as she went back to work on my hair. Based on all the brushing she did, I assumed it was matted.

“My wounds were that severe?” I mumbled.

“You passed.”

“I passed,” I repeated. It was like the words echoed through my mind, becoming louder the more I thought on them. “Does that mean I am no longer⁠—”

“I’m sorry,” she cut me off. No . . . this can’t be right.

The tears welled in my eyes, finding the last bits of moisture within me to expel them, to express no matter how dehydrated I was.

“Who did it?” I trembled, staring down at my hands.

She didn’t answer.

I raised my voice as I turned. “Who did it?”

She couldn’t even look at me.

If not for the clothing, my body could melt into a blob of gel, held in shape by the sage day dress and a ribbon around my throat. The only thing keeping my form was the corset, squeezing my organs into their rightful place—which sounds unpleasant, but oddly, it helped me move with confidence that they wouldn’t spill onto the tulips along the walkway.

Unlike past suffering, I was too tired to fight it. The state of fragility was to be taken seriously, I knew this, but it brought me no ease or pleasure. All I could do was hope the feeling would go away after some time.

The migraine was subsiding the more fresh air I breathed. Phoebe made me chew on ice chips, which satisfied the itch for now. No matter the hunger, I told myself it was best to go slow, considering my injury may have very well reached some of my insides. With every ache that went away, a new one was discovered. Small, but irritating.

The roof of my mouth was raw, metallic when I licked it. My mouth felt rough, like someone filed down the tissue with a coarse stone. My tongue was numb, split, and had yet to regain movement in the newly formed halves.

The vividness of the park strained my eyes, even if it was beautiful this time of year. Flowers of pinks and yellows, azaleas and roses. Most trees were their most illustrious shades of green. The mallards piddled in the pond, disturbing the algae film from the surface.

The people were just as colorful. The brightest dyes and fashions, their picnics diverse in summer-season produce, the sheep sneaking a bite of grass as they shared the meadow.

Some things never changed. Even after a near-death experience, Phoebe and I still committed to walking the park for breakfast. Well, it was noon. The concept still applied mostly.

Phoebe’s grip on my arm could bruise if she held on any longer. She wore a pleasant smile as easily as the jewels in her ears; wearing, not truly feeling. The anxiety was wafting like the heat off the pavement.