The confrontation with Mace has shaken me so badly that I'm left unable to speak or move for an hour. I stay in the corner of Mace's bed, knees tucked under my chin, until lunch is delivered; sloppy joes with a sad side of skinny carrots.
Despite skipping breakfast, I find I'm still far from hungry. Maybe it's the constant stress of my life being threatened that's making my stomach turn, but when I turn my nose at the tray Mace hands me, he takes on that disapproving tone again.
"You gotta eat something," he insists, like a parent to a toddler.
"I'm not hungry," I mutter, knowing exactly what a brat I'm being but having nothing left in me to care about it. I know for a fact I'll hurl as soon as those room-temperature beans hit my tongue. "I feel sick."
"That's because you haven't eaten," he growls.
I give him a dead stare and refuse to take the tray from him.
All of me feels numb down to my core; I'm still processing everything Mace said before about finding his family dead—about killing men who rape innocent people. How could I eat, even if I had an appetite?
An overly sensitive part of me expects Mace to spiral into a rage again. I can't get his furious eyes out of my head, almost like they've been burned there forever. But he sits down beside me like his bed is now our couch and digs in.
"Look," he starts, spooning beans onto a stale looking bun, "I'm not going to apologize for what I said."
I pointedly stare at a drool spot on his pillow, not even sure if what I want from Mace is an apology at all.
"But I am sorry for grabbing you like that."
A silence passes between us as my throat tightens in memory; he grabbed my collar so roughly I wouldn't be surprised if marks were left behind. After a few moments, I finally turn back to look at him, and his eyes are sincere enough that I feel crushed by a sudden weight of confusion.
Was he as furious as my memory is recalling? How is it possible, looking at him now?
Everything starts to feel disorienting again. Mace eats both of our meals quickly, and as soon as the tray is gone I regret not at least trying to eat. Maybe the reason I feel so numb and hollow is not just the trauma, but also that I really need to eat.
I promise myself that when dinner comes—no matter how I feel—I'll choke back whatever I can.
Mace and I hang out on his bed for the rest of the afternoon. I'm too stiff to move, but Mace doesn't kick me off, nor does he bother me with much conversation. He seems to realize that mentally I've escaped somewhere quiet to put my broken mind together.
Ox doesn't sing or call out at us anymore either. I sense his eyes are still on me—but that is probably my own delusions. I don't risk a glance at him to confirm them.
Just before dinner is delivered, I finally break the silence and ask Mace, "How did you get that scar?" I point to the right side of my own face, indicating the thin, shining line that starts just under his eye.
"This one's special," he laughs darkly, turning to face me. "The sick fuck who came after my family tried fighting back. I—" Mace pauses, finding the right words that won't send chills down my back, "—kind of took my time with him. I wear this proudly."
I try to understand, but I don't think I'll ever be able to. Everyone's right in the fact that I don't belong here. I'll never belong here. Mace talks about taking lives like he's doing the world a service—like it's given him purpose—meanwhile the only purpose I've found in life is to profit off my face-card.
When dinner arrives, I finally budge from my corner of Mace's bed and set the tray on my lap. It's the most appetizing looking meal so far; pulled pork, mashed potatoes, and a side Caesar salad. Mace pats me on the back a few times as I choke down my first few bites, but then I am ravenous. I shovel everything down in a hurry and Mace offers me the rest of his mashed potatoes.
I know it's the smallest, most insignificant gesture—especially after how he treated me earlier—but I can't help feel moved by it. I stare at Mace in awe when he hands me his tray and I think I embarrass him. He mutters that it's no big deal, but he stands up, totally avoiding me.
The bedtime routine is nothing to write home about. I use the small, handle-less toothbrush Bridges sent me to brush my teeth; Mace uses my toothpaste and combs his wild curls. Then we both change into a new set of clothes and as I climb up to my top bunk, Mace gives me a new nightmare to worry about.
"Tomorrow's shower day, kid. We also get to go in the yard." His eyes are soft and sincere as he says the next part to comfort me. "Stick with me, Knuckle, and Dom—okay? You're one of us now."