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"You sure it doesn't bother the person you think you should be?"
I scoff. "Don't do that psychological bullshit with me, you stalker. It bothers me because your littering is gross."
"Why?" he crosses his arms over his chest. "This place is a shithole. That cigarette makes the floor look better; don't you think? The staff doesn't give a shit about this place. Why should I?"
I know I'm goading him, but this is starting to piss me off.
I'm not going anywhere with him, and I'm not going to let him win this argument.
"It should bother you," I quip, "because this is not the staff's world that they have to live in. It's yours, and your argument is weak anyway. In your world, no one would ever do anything decent because other people don't care like they should."
"And yet you care about that?" he asks, his gaze narrowing on me. It feels like he's picking apart my brain. "You care about people doing the right thing?"
He has to stop psychoanalyzing me. I'm too tired of this push-and-pull bullshit with him. He offers his hand to help me stand, but I push it away, still a little woozy. I'm trying to calculate how many calories I need to consume to wake the fuck up, but the numbers keep jumbling into nonsense. He apparently grows tired of my refusing his help and hooks a large hand beneath my elbow and yanks me up to stand. The world sways, and I'd fall again if not for him.
He curses under his breath.
"You'll sit with me," he says like the matter is decided . . .again. "Now come on."
"No," I protest, trying to wriggle free of his grasp. "I'm not going with you."
I raise my hand to shove him away, but I must miss him entirely. My hand falls to my side and never meets its target.
God, I'm so woozy. I should have eaten the full fucking banana.
"Yes you are," he snaps. "Now come on. Let me help you to the dining hall."
"No!" I argue again, pushing him away this time, and somewhere in the distance, far away from where I stand, something in me screams that this is a bad idea.
Going with him is bad.
Staying with him is worse.
I need to end this now, but I don't get a chance to before he hooks his index finger beneath my chin and forces my head up to look at him.
"Baby girl, you will come with me," he says. "The only question is if I get to smell the scent of your flesh burning before you do."
What the hell does that mean?
It takes a solid ten seconds before I realize that I've said it aloud.
"It means," he says, cocking his head at me as he removes a black Zippo from his pocket and flicks the lid, igniting it, "either you let me take you to the dining hall, or I will burn compliance into you."
Holy fuck.
Okay, this weirdo is officially scary, and I can't remember why eating is such a bad idea right now. I need something to drink at least, so I don't hit the floor again, and him burning me sounds so much less appealing than going with him. If there's anything I hate more than listening to my own internal monologue berate me while I eat, it's the idea of my flesh sizzling.
Fire's scared me for nearly as long as I can remember, ever since my mother, angry after one of my pageant losses, took a turn too sharply on the ride home. The car rolled across the asphalt, and when we finally stopped tumbling and came to a screeching stop, the seatbelt across my car seat trapped me as the engine block went up in flames. Old scars split open inside my brain as I stare at the lighter's tiny dancing flame.
The stench of tires burning.
The crackle of popping glass.
Me screaming for help, begging my mother to wake up.
The only thing scarier than gaining weight is right in front of my face, warming me.
So when the freak brings the lighter even closer and threatens to burn me, my decision is made.
