Marcid

Forty-Nine - Zeke

It wasn't fair.

It just wasn't. Zeke wasn't in the wrong here, he wasn't. He was in a hospital bed, for God's sake. He went through plenty to get to Kory. What was Kory doing while he was tearing off a handcuff from his wrist? Considering the luxury he had seemed to be gifted, Kory was having the time of his life while Zeke was barely getting through. He looked thoroughly bathed, and well-fed. Good for him, Zeke bitterly thought. He felt bitter for arguing with Kory. He didn't know what had overcome him. He had little thought to what could have erupted his outburst. He didn't know why he had said what he said. He didn't know if he meant it or not. He had a moderately equal amount of importance for the two. It wasn't fair to him that he had to pick sides. Was it his own fault that Aaliyah had died? No. It wasn't. She killed herself. She did it for the others. She wanted to. He had no idea for how long she had been thinking of such self-destructive things. He couldn't help but feel anger towards her, and Kory at the same time. Why did she do it? Was it so necessary to put the heavy weight of guilt that they could have done something sooner on the others? On him? He took her death the hardest. He stared at her dead body for hours, days. It wasn't fair. It was selfish. She was selfish for doing it. For even thinking about it. Was she even thinking about the others? Did she really do it for the others? Or for herself? And Kory. He barely mourned. He could have reached for the very gun that killed Aaliyah. He could have stopped her from killing herself. But he didn't. He simply let her pull the trigger. Zeke had been recalling and remembering that day for a while. Days before he had arrived here.

He had concluded an idea that seemed wrong, so very wrong to him; but something in himself said that it was right. It was Kory's fault. Not Aaliyah's. Not Zeke's. Not anyone else's. Kory's. Whose fault would it be but his? Kory had left minutes after Zeke told him to leave. He was almost crying. Why was he crying? He felt a sense of hatred heat up because he cried. He wasn't the one sitting in a hospital bed. He wanted to stay here. It felt difficult to even tell him to do such a thing. When was the last time that he didn't want him around at all? Zeke had to put some thought into it. When he confessed. Zeke still sometimes felt the feeling of disgust for himself and Kory bubble up in his stomach—or sometimes his chest—whenever he felt upset, which might as well be all the time. He only felt repulsed by him at the time because he was scared. Zeke knew that someone—anyone would disapprove; and that killed something inside of him. He didn't want to disappoint anyone. Why was he the bad guy here? He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to stay here. Ever. He wouldn't stay. Zeke left the hospital bed, bringing the IV stand with him. His stomach had been grumbling for anything that was edible. He just needed to find the mess hall. He hadn't been given socks or any sort of footwear, which mildly bothered him. He had to walk barefoot. As if he wasn't already in enough discomfort. He discovered early in life that he had a dislike to most things sensory-wise. He didn't like the pulp in his orange juice. Most of the other children didn't like it either. He didn't like wearing shorts—not that the 'dress code' frequently provided shorts. He had worn them once, and he immediately didn't like it. He felt more than exposed whenever he wore them. He didn't like being barefoot, and he didn't like touching a majority of things without washing his hands prior. The inability to not wash his hands at all before he touched something nearly killed Zeke. The cold metal pole of the IV stand brought him some comfort. He felt slightly overwhelmed with the comfortability of his clothing. It was too comfortable to his liking, though he couldn't undress himself to relieve the feeling. Everybody's eyes would be on him. Like he was some foreign object.

He walked with more pressure on the fronts of his feet to not feel the coldness of the floor. His non-injured hand gripped the metal pole of the IV stand. Zeke felt a wave of light-headedness hit him, the hunger making him start to ache in his abdominal area instead of the usual grumbles. He huffed, leaning back into the wall next to him, his legs giving out. His other hand wrapped around his abdomen. He didn't understand how hunger could make him hurt this badly. It had to have been something else. He had gone days without eating food and being perfectly fine—other than the irritability and evident hunger that would always come back. It seemed that the small snack that he stole from the gas station a while ago was not enough to keep his appetite at bay. A wave of nausea hit Zeke, the feeling of vomit rising up in his throat. What would he throw up? He hadn't eaten in what seemed to be forever. He let go of the pole before he covered his mouth with his palm. The sudden sweatiness that made his skin form beads of sweat didn't help with his queasy stomach.