dear diary,
I watched a flock of swallows migrate north today, and they kind of reminded me of my inmates and I. we're all heading in the same direction. death. but then I saw 2 of them leave the group, and they headed west. where it was sunnier, and brighter. while the rest of the flock flew towards the foggy black and grey mountains. those 2 birds were lucky. me? not so much.
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I am sick. And I am disgusted.
I wave over a nurse outside my door, "Could you please get me a glass of water?"
She nods her head and turns to leave.
"Oh! And a lime and a bit of sugar?" I flash her a smile.
With brow furrowed, she smiles, nods, and leaves.
She returns not long after with what I asked for, "Here you go, hun."
After having left the room,—the nurse not me— I snicker, "Hun. Be more southern won't ya?"
I take the slice of lemon and pour it into the water, then I grab the pathetic amount of sugar and sprinkle it into the cup.
"That should do it," after having mixed the ingredients with a spoon, I raise the cup to my lips.
"What the hell are you doing?"
I nearly choke on the drink. Wheezing, I turn towards the door. And who do I see? None other than good old Peter Cade.
Rolling my eyes, I continue drinking my concoction.
Pushing himself off the doorframe, he makes his way towards me. "What is that?"
Sighing, I face him. "I have a fever."
"Okay.."
"So..."
"So why are you drinking that?"
"It's something my mom taught me."
There's a long pause, "And??"
"Can you just shut up for a minute!"
He does.
I drink.
I burp.
He speaks.
"But honestly why—"
"Peter!"
"It's been a minute!"
I place my empty cup on my desk in defeat, "It helps maintain it."
"The fever?"
"Mrrerrremmmm."
"Are you okay..?"
"I'm. Fine." I hiss, slowly breathing out.
"Good, because I brought something to make amends."
I hear something wrinkle behind his back as he pulls it out. The scent of mayonnaise and grease fills my nostrils.
"No. Fucking. Way."
I practically rip the McChicken out of his hand, unwrapping the beautiful diabetic mess.
Just as I'm about to sink my teeth into the obviously fake meat, I catch Peter staring at me. Smiling.
I wait for him to stop. He doesn't. I wait. He stares.
Wait.
Stares.
Wait.
Stares.
I uncomfortably place the burger on my lap, "Hey.. didn't you rant off about how unhealthy McDonalds was a few days ago?"
"Yes... but in my defense, I was talking about the French fries."
He's still smiling. Dammit.
"Thanks for the burger kid, but your gonna have to try a lot harder than that."
"How hard?"
"Pretty hard."
"Got it," and with that, he leaves just as fast as he came. Which felt like a fucking long time.
Chapter 10, 1994
