Fear

11

The large iron door of the cafeteria groaned open. Lee's hand stayed firm on my shoulder as he nudged me forward. I became uncomfortable the moment we crossed the threshold.

The smell hit me first — stale sweat, overcooked vegetables, chemical disinfectant — and then the noise. Utensils clinking, trays being dragged across tabletops, and a hushed, indistinct hum of unease.

The place was almost cavernous, like a warehouse masquerading as somewhere people might eat. Rows of bolted-down tables lined the centre of the space like in a prison canteen, their once-red paint chipped, metal scratched and pitted from years of neglect. The lights above were the same harsh fluorescent I'd seen everywhere else, turning skin tones sallow and bruised. There was no real colour left, just grey, faded red, and shadow.

Lee guided me towards the serving line. It kind of felt like walking onto a stage. Heads turned. Eyes flicked up from trays and locked onto me, some blank, some curious, others openly suspicious. One or two stared too long. Maybe I was a little paranoid, but I tried not to look back, not to meet any of their eyes.

Still, I couldn't help noticing them — patients, like me, though they didn't look it in any recognisable sense. One man, large, late-thirties, hunched over his tray like he was shielding it from thieves, his stringy black hair hanging in damp ropes around a pale face. His eyes darted, wide and bloodshot, watching everyone.

Further down the table, a woman with a narrow, angular frame picked at her food with trembling hands. Her skin was a mottled greyish-yellow, like parchment paper soaked in something sour. Her gaze flicked to mine briefly and then away again, fast. Fear lived in her posture, curled tight into her shoulders.

On the opposite side to her, a younger foreign girl sat twitching and rocking slightly, her knee bouncing uncontrollably under the table.

There was a silence among all of them that spoke of the horrors of this place. If I hadn't known it before, I knew now. No one smiled. No one looked at each other for long. They didn't speak. Their faces bore marks of exhaustion, suspicion, and terror.

"Just act normal," Lee muttered under his breath as he pushed me forward into the queue.

My attention then turned to the woman behind the counter. She didn't speak either. Actually, didn't even look up at me. Middle-aged and worn thin, her face was a map of fine lines and deeper creases etched by years of quiet resignation. Her eyes were grey, dull, and heavy-lidded with boredom.

A viscous scoop of beige slop was dolloped onto my tray and slid forward. I hesitated before taking it, my eyes darting up to her, but she was already scooping the next portion for the person behind me. I stared down at it, the sight already turning my face green. The food looked like it had already been eaten once and regurgitated by an animal.

We sat at an empty table near the back. Lee took the stool next to me, facing the room, watchful.

"Try to eat something," he said quietly. "You need the energy."

I picked up the plastic fork and gave the food a tentative prod. The texture was mushy and clumpy all at once. It might have been mashed potatoes, rice, or gruel... but whatever it was, I sure as hell wasn't willing to put it anywhere near my mouth. My stomach churned in protest.

If only to distract myself from the vomit lookalike on my tray, I pretended to poke it while I looked around the space. Being a people-watcher, even in a place like this where it wasn't advised to stare at strangers, I couldn't help myself.

And then, my eyes landed on a black form in the corner of the room.

I fixed my gaze.

A boy. No more than eighteen or nineteen. He wore an oversized black hoodie, the hood dragged over his head, casting the upper half of his face in shadow as he hung low over the table. What little skin was visible — his jaw, the curve of his cheek — bore fresh bruises that bloomed like sick violets against his pallid skin. The hoodie swallowed his frame like it belonged to someone much larger than him, and the sleeves had been pulled deliberately past his wrists. His shoulders curled inward, his spine bent as though he were trying to fold himself out of sight. Each time he lifted his fork, his hands trembled. Not enough to be dramatic, just enough to make it clear he wasn't steady. He barely ate, nudging food from one side of the tray to the other like he was trying to convince himself it might change into something edible.