What He Does to Me (V.2)

Chapter 2

Drifting between wakefulness and sleep, my mind begins to struggle to tell the two apart. The hours are starting to blend together, and there are no working clocks in this room. Sure, there are clocks, but none of them tell the same time. There are heavy curtains on the window that block out light, leaving me in nothing but unwavering candlelight. Spirits forbid that I be 'stimulated' by the passage of time, or sunlight. I'd joke about someone coming to take away the air I breathe next, but that's looking more and more like a very real possibility.

A light knock followed by the sound of a turning doorknob wakes me from my lull. I barely have time to force myself to sit up before two maids come in and start to arrange my sheets, among other things. Before I know it, I find myself set up with a plate of food and a fresh glass of water, and the two maids safely out of sight as though they'd catch fire if they stayed in my room too long.

So, it's seven o'clock. Good to know.

I know I was told I wouldn't be eating in the dining hall, but I can't help but feel a little disappointed.

I decide to get started on my meal. The maids have to wait outside the whole time while I eat so they can clear up when I'm done, and I don't want to keep them waiting too long.

The food is delicious. I know I've complained a lot since I got here, but I am extremely grateful for the change in scenery because it also means a change in food. 

My mother has had the kitchens make the exact same thing for me to eat every single day since I was five. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, I always knew what to expect because it was always the same, save for minor but negligible variations. The repetition was nauseating, I feel the urge to gag just thinking about it. My mother always insisted it was for my health, and that I needed to stick to prescribed meals to prevent my condition from getting any worse. She'd usually have some mildly awestruck healer or herbalist with her just to nod along and provide affirmation.

 The only things that have kept me sane are my 'cheat weeks', when my parents go away to visit other places and leave me behind. The cooks tend to take pity on me in the absence of my overbearing mother, and would put a different spin on the monotonous meal I'd usually receive. That way I'd eat all the things I was supposed to, but they'd all taste different. They'd put extra spice, and break out the deep fryer. It was always wonderful.

Neuverian food reminds me of those times. The flavours are so different, so exciting. It's easy to tell that the person making my food was given the standard recipe, but decided at some point that leaving the meal so bland and flavourless was an insult to the art of cooking. The result is something that looks like what I'm supposed to be eating, but tastes similar to the food being served at the banquet.

To whoever was cooking tonight, I owe you my life.

Eating quickly isn't hard at all, not with how delicious the food is. I don't normally have much of an appetite, but I just couldn't get enough of the new flavours and textures. Once done, I pick up the bell on the tray and ring it to signal that my dinner has come to an end. Upon hearing their cue, the maids come in, clear everything away and disappear again.

A sense of stillness settles in the room. I guess I'll just have to go back to sleep.

I attempt to make myself comfortable on the bed, but the unpleasant feeling that accompanies lying down after a meal makes its way up my chest. I grit my teeth and try to tough it out.

Half an hour later, I still can't seem to shake that feeling. Normally, people go on walks to clear away that sense of unpleasant fullness, but I can't exactly do that.

I guess I'll have to sit up, then.

Great. I can't even engage in the one activity that makes time pass quickly enough to convince me that I'm not losing my mind. With a huff, I throw my arm out, straightening my blankets over my legs.