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What does it say about me that I haven’t seen a living human being other than Mom in twelve years and my first instinct is to knock them unconscious?
The forgiving sort? I pegged him for a sucker. One day out in the big, bad world and I could already spot them.
“At least nobody here will lock you in a metal box for days at a time,” he replied, a touch defensive. “My entire life is boxes.” I twirled the fork before setting it down on my discarded plate. “First I was trapped in my house or in the box; now I’m trapped on your campus. Most people are trapped in their towns, or their jobs, or their way of life. We go through life in our little boxes until we find ourselves in the last one, buried in the ground.”
I snaked as much food as I could, keeping a careful watch on what went on my plate. It’s not that I thought the workers would do something evil; it’s just I’ve seen enough on TV detailing what wait staff do to the food of people they don’t like to make me paranoid. It adds another dimension to being hated.
“Even among the bizarre, I’m bizarre.”
“He has the bedside manner of a goat,”
I had been enjoying the feel of the soft bed against my skin, something in great contrast to the marked discomfort I felt on the inside from what I was watching.