Chapter Text
Financial reasons.
That’s the first excuse Grace gives himself as he navigates through the aisles of the small grocery store he’s been visiting for the past ten years. He’s grown accustomed to the familiar faces of the same employees who stand by the registers—expressions worn and pleading for the day to come to an end. He understands that feeling. This week was tough, to say the least. Now, they’re doing budget cuts. That thought doesn’t do much to soothe the knot of nerves residing in the pit of his stomach.
It doesn’t please him to think about the possibility of making phone calls to people he’s been avoiding since he left for college. Speaking to his family is something that’s not exactly on his checklist. The knot in his stomach tightens—he doesn’t want to lose his position, that’s the worst outcome in this situation. I should be smart about this, he thinks, turning a corner and scanning over the selection of Campbell’s soup.
He picks whatever’s cheapest, because that feels like the most logical choice to make. Cutting back on a few items is easy, until he passes through the bakery, frowning, because there’s one item he can’t have and it’s his weekly sweet treat. He tries not to think about it too hard, tells himself that it’s for the best as he takes his cart up front.
In the end, he pays only $30 for groceries, cutting the usual number down by half. He grimaces at the thought of having to eat only fruits, vegetables, plain yogurt, and canned soup for a week, but it’s preferable than running the risk of losing his apartment because he doesn’t have the funds to pay rent. He needs to be conscious, he needs to be prepared, he needs to save what little money he has. He’s doing himself a favour.
That thought plays on repeat as soon as he steps into his apartment. He flicks on the lights and lifts the reusable bag onto the counter. He takes everything out and studies each item like they’re some kind of specimen. Bananas—cheap, only $0.63 per pound. He did fine there. Carrots—one pound for $1.79. Reasonable, he’s got enough there to last a while. Greek yogurt—$6.59. Okay, he messed up there. That’s a little expensive.
Grace grabs ahold of the container and scans through the ingredient list. Well, it’s just a dairy product. He could do without it next time. He makes a mental note of this as he puts everything away and takes a seat, staring up at the ceiling.
It hits him then that he’s hungry.
Am I though?
He had lunch about four hours ago. It’s not like he'll be going to bed on an empty stomach. Still, he feels a little shaky. All he had was a plain cheese sandwich. That’s not exactly substantial. He gets up and scans through his soup selection. His hand lands on the cream of chicken flavour. His stomach grumbles. He’s really hungry—but then he thinks about it again: finances. Grace lets his hand fall back to his side. He shuts the cabinet door and plops down in front of his laptop with a bottle of water instead. The cool drink provides him with mild relief. For a while, he forgets that he was even hungry at all, until the pangs start up again.
With a sigh, Grace enters his bedroom and pops two sleeping pills. He doesn’t want to think about anything anymore. He lets himself drift away into slumber instead.
XXX
Morning arrives, much to his disdain.
Grace parts from his mattress with a groan, stretching his arms high above his head. He takes a shower, brushes his teeth, combs his hair, and gets changed and ready for the long day ahead.
In the kitchen, he moves on autopilot. Absent-mindedly, he reaches for the bag of bagels he brought last week.
Within seconds, he catches his mistake. His hand lingers over the bag before he pulls away. I’ll have one tomorrow instead. He’s being smart, he’s rationing. Bagels are sort of expensive anyway. He doesn’t need to have breakfast every day. Most adults don’t—now he’ll be part of that statistic.
He cracks open a can of chicken noodle soup. He heats it in a pot over the stove before pouring it into his usual thermos. He slips the tin into his lunchbag and grabs his helmet and backpack. He’s ready for the day—or at least, that’s what he’s trying to tell himself as he ignores the lingering pangs of hunger.
The ride over goes as it usually does. Grace can’t say that he enjoys cycling, but it’s never been about enjoyment. It’s most definitely not convenient either, but driving a car is something he lost the privilege of doing four years back after one too many irresponsible incidents behind the wheel. So, he stopped drinking, and he stopped driving (unwillingly). This is his life now. It’s not entirely bad, but it’s also not good, and still, happiness feels out of reach.
When he arrives at school, Grace keeps his head down as he navigates through the empty halls. He makes a dash into his office and locks the door behind him. He’s early, as usual. He prefers it this way. No rush, no anxiety. He slides into the swivel chair parked near his desk and sighs. His leg is bouncing. He can’t stop fiddling around with the strings coming undone from the leather of the seat. Grace can’t sit still. The truth is, he’s hungry and he can’t get that thought of his head.
He gets up and heads across the hall to the staff break room. He grabs ahold of a mug one of his students had gifted him during Christmas break and makes himself a coffee—black with no desirable flavour. He winces at its bold taste, but it’s not about the taste—it’s about quieting the noise that’s been relentless since yesterday evening.
It takes him two cups before he settles down. By then, it’s time for him to get started with the day.
His students pour into the classroom at around 8:15. He greets them all with a friendly smile before moving onto the curriculum. He examines the faces he’s grown to care about over the past couple of months. It doesn’t take long for the atmosphere to shift as soon as he goes around the room, collecting homework.
“I forgot to do it,” one student says.
Grace sighs. It’s wrong, but with understanding, he gives the boy an extension.
“I’ll give you until tomorrow to get it done.”
Grace doesn’t notice the tremor in his hand until he’s made his way across the room with a fresh stack of paperwork for him to take home and grade later that evening. He sits down at his desk and goes through his planner. Something shifts, and suddenly he’s thrown off guard by his body emitting a loud and unpleasant sound.
His stomach grumbles.
There are a few giggles throughout the classroom. His cheeks burn with embarrassment and shame. He gives himself a moment to collect himself before rising from his seat and clapping his hands together.
“Alright, let’s get started,” he says, because life goes on—hungry or not.
XXX
Lunchtime arrives at the same time as always.
Grace leans back into his seat, sighing as his students leave the room for a thirty minute break. He’s alone now. He likes the silence of his empty classroom—but it’s not enough. He wants to stay alone, so he gets up and grabs ahold of his lunch bag. He carries it with him and makes his way through the halls before eventually reaching the staff room.
Already, there are a few familiar faces.
He tries to avoid making himself seen as he sneaks past his coworkers, retreating into the single stall restroom. He locks the door shut and leans against it for support before setting his lunch bag down against the sink. He stares at it in deep contemplation. It’s just soup, he tells himself. It’s not really that expensive. You can have this.
Slowly, Grace opens up the bag and takes out his thermos. It’s hot against his cold hands. He removes the lid and stares into the liquified meal. It doesn’t look very appealing, though he’s had it numerous times before.
There’s some hesitation as he reaches for his spoon and takes a seat against the closed toilet lid. He feels a bit like he did years back as a student. He’s hit with the stinging familiarity of sitting in the bathroom eating lunch because it was a safe refuge from the chaos of bullies and teachers who scowled and looked at him with nothing but clear disdain. He shakes away the flashback as he forces himself to chew and swallow, until he no longer can. Something about this feels wrong, and he gets the feeling that he’s doing something forbidden.
Grace sets his spoon back into the lunchbag, appetite lost. He’s still got about half the portion left. One can is 260 calories; he’s running on 120 for the rest of the afternoon. That’s a little dangerous, but he wills himself to stop thinking about it as he zips up his lunchbag.
The rest of his day passes in a blur, and he’s grateful for that.
When three o’clock strikes, Grace grabs his belongings up from the floor and makes a swift exit out of his classroom. Keep your head down, he repeats to himself—because he’s tired. He doesn’t have the strength nor the capacity to engage in a conversation. Grace thinks it’s just his luck when a woman from across the hall stops to greet him. He tries to remember her name. It’s a little pathetic—he’s been working here for a while, yet somehow, names have never quite stuck. Perhaps because he’s never found a reason to familiarise himself with them.
Joanna. It comes to him suddenly as he studies her. A pretty woman, maybe a year or two older than him—but he doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him. He squirms a little under her gaze. He feels threatened by the sharp intensity of her piercing blue eyes.
“What are you doing later this evening?”
Straight to the point. This isn’t good. Loud alarms blare inside Grace’s head.
“I—Well, nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Uh, no. Nothing.”
He knows that tone. Grace backs into the wall, desperate to merge with it. He wants to disappear.
“I thought I saw you earlier in the break room. You disappeared into the bathroom for a long time.”
He swallows, glancing away.
“Yeah. It’s just quiet in there.”
She looks concerned. Grace doesn’t like when people express concern. It only heightens his anxiety. He doesn’t want to let them see what he’s desperately trying to hide. He doesn’t want them to know that something is wrong—that he can’t blend in with other people. He’s not like them, not really. He’s not sure if he wants to be.
“How about joining me for dinner later on? Maybe we can get to know each other.”
His stomach drops.
The thought of sharing a meal with someone suddenly feels more than just intrusive, it feels more akin to a threat. Now, this he knows isn’t about money—it’s something else. The shared closeness, the vulnerability, that he can’t do. He shakes his head and backs away slightly.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got plans.”
The lie feels bitter against his tongue. He studies the brief look of disappointment crossing over her face. She nods with understanding, but before she can get another word out, Grace turns around and makes his way over towards the exit. Close call, he thinks, sliding onto the seat of his bicycle. He puts together the clasps of his helmet before peddling away from the building.
XXX
Grace arrives home feeling emptier than ever. Not just emotionally, but physically, and he knows why.
He’s used up the last of his energy. Riding his bicycle probably burnt around 100 calories; that’s more than half of what he’s eaten. His stomach grumbles and he groans. He’s frustrated, so he pulls out his laptop and navigates to the only part of the internet with real questions and answers: Reddit.
Grace types in the following: “Eating less to save money.”
Unsurprisingly, he finds quite a few posts. With the economy being as it is, he’s hardly caught off guard. He finds the following:
-“I just lost my job, should I cut back on eating?”
-“I think I’m about to get fired, is food that important?”
-“College student here, I’m trying to save up for tuition. Should I cut food out?”
Then he sees it, the comment section. Replies explaining why this isn’t advisable. There’s one response that sticks with him:
“This just sounds like disordered eating.”
Grace pauses. Is it?
Well, no. He doesn’t have a problem with food. He never has. It’s just for financial purposes.
“Right,” he whispers—though there’s something about that statement that feels a little far from the truth.
Three hours later, he eats the last of his soup, and as he pushes around a small chunk of carrot, he wonders, Do I have a problem with food? He feels silly thinking about it again. No, he’s just being cautious. That’s what he keeps telling himself. Or maybe it’s denial. Still, it’s not a big deal. He knows the science behind this. He’ll be fine. It’s not like he’s cutting food out entirely—it’s just a small cut.
He’ll be fine.
XXX
He’s managed to stretch out a week’s worth of groceries. They’ve lasted him two weeks instead.
Now, something has shifted.
For Grace, life has mostly felt mundane. Go to work, come home, sleep—rinse and repeat. But this hunger gives him a new feeling—something like a new strength. He likes being hungry a little more than he should.
Deep down, he’s always known that things haven’t exactly been right with him. He can acknowledge that, at least.
The anxiety attacks were never normal. His inability to connect with people was another. The scars lined up against his wrist—dark and thick, weren’t either. College was a blur in his fragmented, drug fuelled mind—and being publicly humiliated was truly the topper along with being labelled as infamous. Add DUIs to the list, too.
Grace isn’t exactly all there. He’s not sure if he’s ever been. He doesn’t need a psychiatrist to tell him what he’s well aware of.
He’s at the market again when he’s hit with a new idea. He ignores the churning in his stomach as he thinks it over.
How long can I go without food?
He smiles a sick sort of smile. He’s definitely got some loose screws—but maybe this is enough to finally make him feel something real.
Now, the new excuse is, I want to feel something.
Cooking ingredients turn into protein bars, diet drinks, and electrolyte powders. No soup cans, no vegetables, no ramen, nothing substantial. It’s a challenge now, and there’s a thrill behind it. He knows that it’s harmful, but he can’t resist. It’s for science, he thinks to himself. I’m curious what the end result will be.
The bill comes down to $18. He can work with that.
XXX
Half a week later, Grace realises that this is something he can’t work with.
He keeps trying to assure himself that he can, he can, he can—until he starts his lunch break at 11:50, with the class freshly dismissed. His hands won’t stop shaking, and his breathing feels ragged. There’s a loud thrumming in his ears that won’t subside, and his head is pulsing. He hasn’t eaten anything over 500 calories since the week started. He feels ill and possibly on the verge of an anxiety attack as he rises, unable to shake away a dizzy spell.
“No, no,” he whispers to himself, knowing that he cannot afford to break down. Especially not in front of his students. He has half an hour to pull himself together. He knows what he has to do, though it’s not exactly an appealing choice.
He enters the break room. This time, he finds himself alone. His coworkers are nowhere in sight, he has no knowledge of where they might have gone. Perhaps to the cafeteria… Without letting him know.
Right.
What was he expecting? They’d tried with him before. He never let himself be included.
Grace sorts through the fridge for something that doesn’t taste like artificial sweetener. Eventually, he stumbles upon a ham and cheese sandwich. He sighs as he pulls out a notepad from his breastpocket. He scribbles down an apology note, promising to leave behind $10 the following day. He tries to shake away his guilt as he peels away the wrapper and sinks his teeth into the soft bread, chewing like his life depends on it—and really, it does.
Each bite feels meaningless. He doesn’t stop to savour the taste of the sandwich, it’s mostly flavourless with his mind focused only on consuming. It takes Grace all of five minutes to eat the entire thing. Still, he’s not satisfied. The shaking is relentless. From the corner of his eye, he catches a basket of sweet buns from the nearby bakery. His mouth waters as he approaches the counter, extending a greedy hand out to fetch one.
It’s the same as before. He’s too hungry to think about the way the bun tastes.
One isn’t enough, so he has two, then three.
He’s about to reach for a fourth, when suddenly, it dawns on him that the time is now 12:05. He pulls away from the basket, feeling deeply ashamed of himself. What have I done? He thinks, feeling a sudden bloating in his stomach.
There’s something wrong about what he’s just done, in more ways than one. Grace swallows, suddenly aware of the sweat accumulating near his brow. Sickness churns inside of him as he makes an escape into the bathroom, as if doing so will erase his guilt. Quietly, he locks the door behind him before dropping to his knees.
There’s something really wrong with me. His thoughts are loud and violent, assaulting. His hand trembles as he lifts up the toilet seat. But I don’t want to fix what’s wrong. He’s used to being crazy, it’s all he’s ever been labeled as. Besides, he has no one to fix himself for.
That last thought is particularly loud as he swallows, hesitant as he stares at his shaking hand. Don’t think about it, just do it.
So, Grace does.
He shoves his fingers down his throat, deep where it hurts. His time is limited, and he is fuelled by desperation as he tries with all his might to get rid of what he’s just consumed. At first, he gets nothing. He sinks back against his heels, frustrated until he tries again, this time with slick, wet fingers.
It’s harder than he remembers.
He’s been here before, but with a different intention. Taking pills from strangers after his failed publication—it wasn’t exactly a smart choice. Back then though, it seemed promising—until it wasn’t. Grace is familiar with playing risky games. He’s here again doing so with swarming vision. He chokes on his tears as everything comes up, throat tight as he leans further into the cool porcelain.
The bell rings just as he’s done.
Grace gets up onto his feet and wipes away his tears. He flushes the toilet, washes his hands, and proceeds on with his day as if nothing has happened.
XXX
He doesn't want to admit that he has a problem.
Grace tells himself that he’s okay as he pedals his way over to school on a rainy morning.
Nearly a month has passed since this first began. Things have changed.
He’s lost weight, but that’s just scratching the surface. Emotionally, something in him has shifted. He feels a bit more deflated, more hopeless than ever. He’s not sure if it’s because of his low energy levels, or if it’s because doing this has given him another awakening—that this is the most he’ll ever get out of life. That self-destructive thrill, it’s all he has going for him.
He stopped telling himself that it’s about money. That feels more like a lie than anything. So does the excuse of, ‘it’s for science,’ and, ‘I want to feel something.’ The truth is a little deeper than that, but maybe it’s always been resting in the back of his head; a truth he never wanted to admit out loud: I really hate myself.
Grace trembles as that thought comes to mind.
He hates that he’s never been good enough for anyone to stay—how every social event turned into an excuse to drink to ignore the lingering pain because he had no one to stand beside, no one he could say he loved or cared about. No friends, no family, no partner. No one but himself. Large crowds often made him feel lonelier than ever. He’s not a desirable person, he knows that.
Those days of waking up hungover are gone, he’s replaced that with a new form of punishment. That’s what it’s really about. It feels fitting for him to be in this position. He stopped feeling guilty about the skipped meals or thrown out dishes. He stopped trying to hide the accumulated sores resting against his knuckles. They won’t go away, he won’t make the effort to let his body heal from this. He deserves this—he’s resided as a failure for too long.
Dizzy spells are something he’s grown accustomed to over the weeks—it hits him again as he’s pedaling. He shakes his head and blinks, willing for it to cease, but it doesn't. His vision swarms, the road ahead tilting as everything blurs. Grace panics. He pulls away from the road and collapses behind a tree, obscured from sight as he puts a hand over his chest.
Lub-dub… Lub-dub…. Lub-dub…..
His heart is struggling to keep up.
With a shaky hand, Grace reaches into his backpack and pulls out an emergency protein bar.
Just a couple of bites, he says to himself. Just to get you regulated again.
You’ll be fine.
He has to be.
A few nibbles turn into half of the bar, and before he’s even aware of it, the entire thing is gone. As Grace stares at the empty wrapper, something in him breaks. His throat feels tight, his chest heavy. His vision blurs, but this time, it’s with tears. He cries, loud and ugly with snot dripping down his face. He lets himself have that release until he can no longer shed another tear. For the first time in his teaching career, he’s going to be late to work.
He’s not fine, but he pulls himself together because his students depend on him. He’s fine with failing himself, but not them—never them.
Grace manages to arrive just before the bell rings. By then, his students are already in place. He greets them all with a friendly, welcoming smile, trying to hold back his tears as he sees their toothy little grins.
During his break, Grace enters his office and locks the door behind him. He shuts the blinds, desperate to avoid being seen. As he pulls away from the door, he sees it—a giant fruit basket resting atop his desk.
What the heck?
Grace slowly approaches his desk. He studies the basket like it’s an ancient artifact. It’s known that his coworkers like to talk. He doesn’t miss the way they look at him with concerned glances. Lately, they’ve seemed more intrusive than ever. Joanna especially.
Something twists inside of him.
They know. They must know.
His bony hands tremble as he grips the corner of his desk.
Grace releases a shaky breath before pushing the basket away with the thought of, this is more than you deserve. What makes you believe that you’re worthy of anything at all?
He leaves the basket exactly where he found it until the days pass and he no longer stand its rotting, pungent smell. Out it goes.
XXX
He starts smoking again about a week later.
Grace hasn’t touched a cigarette since college. It took quite the effort to quit in the first place, but he figures, it doesn’t matter anymore—not when his body is struggling to keep up with him anyway.
The nicotine helps. He thinks a little less about food, and more about smoking instead. It doesn’t make him feel any less pathetic, though—and as he goes through the ritual, he wonders how long he can keep up with it until his body eventually decides that it can no longer tolerate this abuse. Eventually, it will give up on him.
Late at night as he shivers in bed, he runs his fingers along his protruding ribcage trying to brush that thought aside, but it’s relentless. The reminder lingers with his withering body.
The biggest surprise though, happens an additional week later.
He’s at work when he gets a visit from an unfamiliar woman. She tells him that she’s the head of the Petrova Taskforce. Grace does a doubletake. He shakes his head, wondering if this is just another hallucination, but it isn’t. She remains by his desk, firm—her gaze sharp and focused.
Grace swallows, too exhausted to entertain whatever it is she has in mind. He grabs his belongings and scurries over to the exit. He hopes that she’ll have half the heart to leave him alone, but she doesn’t. She trails behind him until they eventually arrive outside. It’s then when she pulls out a piece of his past. She pulls out the paper he had written years ago, and as she does so, his cheeks turn a violent shade of red.
He doesn’t want to go there again. He doesn’t want to remember the shame, the humiliation—worst of all, what he had been reduced to: a laughingstock.
Grace pulls away, set on leaving. He’s about seconds away from doing so, until he spots the approaching SUVs in the distance. Something swarms inside of him. He feels the onset of a panic attack and chokes. I can’t, he thinks—and that thought plays on repeat like a broken record. He tries, pleads with all his might, insists that he’s not capable of doing whatever it is they want him to do, but the answer is final:
We need you.
He’s left with no choice as he’s pushed into the backseat of one of the SUVs. He falls asleep about ten minutes into the ride, because he’s a little more than just exhausted. He feels like he’s barely even alive.
They arrive at a lab a short while later. Now this—it’s the cherry on top.
Grace is thrown into a room with the expectation of performing tests. He gets the feeling that he’s worth nothing more than an expendable asset as he works in a quarantined space with a hazmat suit attached to his body.
“It would be preferable if you did not die,” the woman, who is named Stratt, tells him over a headset.
It doesn’t take long for him to realise that’s exactly what he is. Expendable.
Great. It only makes sense for him to be in this position anyway. In spite of this, he tries to complete the given task.
His hand trembles as he attempts to analyse and break things apart. For a moment, he loses focus. He loses a hold of the tool previously in his grasp. His memory blanks, and his vision swarms. Fantastic—and in front of an audience.
Grace takes a step back and tries to steady his breathing. Not like this is the first time it’s happened. He should be used to it by now, but still, there’s always a bit of shellshock.
Down the line, he manages to get a result which earns him a sliver of praise from Stratt and the room full of onlookers. He feels mildly accomplished as he accepts her gratitude, but as soon as it begins, it ends.
Apparently, his job is over. He’s no longer needed. His stomach churns. He doesn’t want to accept this.
He’s more than just desperate as he approaches her, eyes soft and pleading. He tries with all his might to get something out of her, but in the end, that something turns out to be yet another sharp look, this time, one that’s knowing. Grace can hardly breathe under her scrutiny.
She leans in close with narrowed eyes and whispers, “You look unwell.”
“I’m more than capable of working,” he replies, trying to ignore the repeated thought of: she knows, she knows, she knows.
“No,” she says. “I cannot have you operating in this state. It was out of desperation that I chose you, and you have completed your task. The last thing I need is another liability. I need people who are of solid mind. Your work here is done.”
Grace keeps his head up with the refusal to back down.
“I am fine and I am capable and I will get you results.” He hangs onto the hope of being of use to someone. His students come to mind with the next sentence that follows. “I want to help.”
She studies him again before sighing.
“Fine.”
In the end, she leaves him with three samples. Three samples is plenty.
XXX
It doesn’t end.
Not even after he returns to continue his research.
He does the usual, he tells himself that he is fine. Somehow, being this hungry helps. He uses it as motivation. If you get the job done, you’ll be given a treat as a reward. Grace keeps a bag of Skittles Sours in his pocket as he works through the day. He allows himself a total of five pieces each time he progresses. The artificial sweetness does enough to satisfy him.
Temporarily, at least.
One thing leads to another, and somehow, he’s put into a position he would’ve never imagined being in. He finds himself being forced onto a plane, then onto a boat, in the middle of the ocean. He vomits after arriving, thrown off guard. Everything seems to be moving so quickly, and he’s too far behind to catch up.
He’s on the brink of an anxiety attack when Stratt approaches him. Her gaze is as sharp as ever. Grace turns away, embarrassed.
Being embarrassed is preferable over what he’s forced to endure moments later. Now, this time, he feels as though he’s being thrown into a humiliation ritual as Stratt leads him into a room filled with politicians and scientists. His throat feels tight, and he digs his nails hard into the palms of his hands, desperate and afraid. He feels betrayed as Stratt pulls him along and he is forced to stand in front of the large crowd. She introduces him, but her words are muffled and far away.
He can’t breathe.
He tries to keep his head down, but each time he looks up, he quickly catches onto the shared looks amongst the crowd. They know, they know, they know—hell, everyone knows something is wrong. Grace blinks away his tears, but it does little to stop the flood from spilling. He hears a quiet whisper from the corner of the room.
“How can someone like this be qualified to work with us?”
He feels like he’s being thrown into his past again. Once again, he’s a laughing stock. He can’t shake away the shame.
Once he’s seated, he scoots a little closer to Stratt. Shame swarms through him as he asks the following:
“Do you think you could get me a Xanax or something?”
She studies him for a moment before nodding. Well, of course. Stratt has access to just about everything.
Grace doesn’t second guess himself as soon as he’s handed the pill. He takes it and lets that mellow calm wash over him. He’s been needing something like this for a while.
When the meeting is over, Grace is led to a small room that he’s now forced into calling his living quarters. He finds a set of clean clothes for him to change into along with a bottle of Xanax resting on his nightstand. There’s a note attached to the bottle. Grace reads it, tempted to take another as soon as he’s done so.
“Come talk to me in my office.”
-Stratt
He does as he’s told and immediately regrets not taking another pill as soon as he steps inside.
Stratt’s expression is stern, enough to send shivers down his spine.
“You’re a valuable asset to us,” she begins.
Grace isn’t sure what she’s getting at, so he toys with the sleeve of his sweater, waiting for her to continue. She doesn’t say anything. They remain in an awkward silence as she continues her staring.
Eventually she rises before asking, “Is there something you’d like to tell me? Any issues we should be aware of?”
Grace shakes his head. He understands now where this conversation is heading and he’s desperate to wriggle his way out of it.
Stratt continues her staring. He’s come to learn over the weeks that Stratt is someone who refuses to back down, no matter the situation. He knows there is no escaping in this. Grace sucks in a breath before trying.
“I have some money issues. Sometimes I don’t eat.”
Stratt’s expression hardly shifts. She nods once.
“Not to worry, you’ll be well fed on this ship.”
It’s after that sentence when Grace starts to grasp the severity of his situation. He panics. Something swells inside of him, something he can’t suppress. His chest feels heavy. His throat feels tight. His hands begin to sweat. He needs a cigarette, a Xanax. Anything but food. Anything to draw him away from reality.
He doesn’t want to be well fed. He doesn’t want to eat at all.
Grace doesn’t realise that statement has slipped from his lips until it’s too late. Now Stratt is more than suspicious. She’s aware—fully aware.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
There’s another pause between them before Stratt’s expression turns to something softer, almost sympathetic. No one has ever looked at him like that before. He’s not sure how to react—which words are the right ones to be used. Instead, he cries, and he cries hard.
“We have a medical wing,” she says, tone shifting. “If you refuse to eat, we will be forced to intubate you. We can’t afford to lose you. We need you in good health, Dr. Grace.”
“Okay,” he whispers. “Yeah, okay.”
XXX
The weeks pass in a blur. He’s been occupied with a variety of tasks, drawing him away from his usual morbid thoughts.
Since their conversation, Stratt has kept an observant eye on him. She never leaves him to eat on his own. There’s always someone sitting beside him as he eats—a nurse, or some kind of medical professional. Grace never says anything, because he knows better—but at times, he can’t bring himself to hide his irritability. This is a violation of personal space.
Still, he understands that it’s with good intention.
He gains weight.
He’s not exactly back to 80kg, but he’s healthy enough to be mostly functional again.
He can concentrate. He feels more like himself. He’s able to keep up in conversations. That’s enough for him.
Everything is fine, until he gets the news.
They’re forcing him to go on this mission.
The first thing he does—he panics. His body trembles as he makes a frantic dash out from Stratt’s office. Through his peripheral vision, he can see about a handful of men chasing after him. He doesn’t stand a chance.
Naturally, it doesn’t take them long to catch up to him. With strong hands, they grab him and force him onto the ground. Grace screams, and flails, and cries, and begs. He feels like a dog being punished as they push his face into the dirt. The pressure is hard enough to force the air straight from his lungs.
It hits him then that he should have never listened.
Stratt never cared about him, this was all a part of her plan. It was never about him. It’s never been about him.
Everything fades to black shortly after that. His heart slows, and that’s the last of it.
XXX
Consciousness comes to him. He wakes up confused and delirious.
Grace doesn’t know where he is.
It takes him a while to put together the pieces. For one, he is not on Earth. He’s not even remotely close to Earth; he’s been far away from it for a while. He’s somewhere he doesn’t want to be, somewhere no human should be. He doesn’t know why, though. Worst of all, he doesn’t remember who he was. That thought is troubling enough.
He finds his dead crewmates, and soon enough, he’s doubled over, heaving. That’s even more troubling.
He takes the initiative to dig around for whatever clues he can find. He doesn’t find much though, because soon enough, he’s distracted.
Screw it, he thinks.
Grace has a woman by the name of Olesya Ilyukhina to thank for the IV bags of vodka he finds mixed in with the rest of her belongings. He lets himself get lost in a drunken haze. This feels appropriate enough to do, considering that he’s all alone, trapped in space with no exit.
When all the IV bags are gone, he gets his first recollection.
He’s not meant to be drinking.
He sees a car—his car—smashed into a tree.
Grace glances at the empty bags. He vomits into one of them. So that’s the type of person he was.
The second recollection comes to him as he’s standing in front of the mirror, observing himself. He wonders, have I always been this buff? He finds a photograph of himself. Unlike his crewmates, he doesn’t look happy. He looks empty, beaten down by the world, but mostly beaten down by himself. Grace sees a deflated, defeated looking man in the photo.
He compares it to what he sees in the mirror and frowns.
Then it hits him.
“Eating disorder?”
He glances at the photo again. His frown deepens.
“Eating disorder.”
Now, that’s a statement.