Page 7 of Sin Like the Devil

Decades ago, it was converted into a home for the mentally unstable, including those deemed too fucked for prison.

Most people end up here one of two ways. Some are criminals, offered a shiny lifeline that enables them to escape jail time by agreeing to a three-year sentence in the experimental program.

But the rest of us? We’re genuinely insane.

And I’m talking fucking clinical.

I didn’t joyride in a celebrity’s limo or burn a handsy relative alive. Yes, both true stories I’ve heard. I wish my story was that interesting. Instead, my manic ramblings were silenced, and I was shipped off to avoid causing my uncle more bad press.

Harrowdean wasn’t even my first stop on the crazy train. Sedated and restrained, I was taken to the bigger, northern branch first—the infamous, and apparently under threat, Priory Lane. Fuck, how I’d love to see that slice of hell burn along with everyone in it.

Passing other patients in the carpet-lined halls, most avert their eyes. They all know I’m top dog. If you want anything illegal in here, I’m the girl to speak to. And that role grants me the respect, and more importantly, the fear, that I relish in without shame.

“Rip!”

Sighing, I halt outside my bedroom door, Room Seventeen. Rae is several doors down on the same floor. Dark-brown, almost black eyes lined with thick kohl, she flashes me a toothy smile from beneath her voluminous auburn curls.

“You know my name,” I drone back, gripping the door handle. “At least bother to finish it.”

With an eye roll, she lays her deep, raspy voice on thick. “Ripley. Satisfied?”

“Overjoyed.” I begrudgingly release the knob and turn to face her. “What do you want?”

“I’m out. The last pack you gave me were dull.”

“It’s not like I can just nip down to the drug store and find the good, sharp razor blades for you to slice yourself up with. I’m beholden to others too.”

“Yeah, whatever. I want the good ones.”

Darkness creeps in. It blooms in the pits of my mind, metastasising with the weight of my guilt. I prefer the days when I’m too fucking high—or even better, too fucking depressed—to give a shit what she does with those razors.

But those in-between periods of lucidity as I wait for the bipolar roller coaster to regain speed are the most destructive. The days when I have to contend with the consequences of my decisions. At least when I’m off my head on imbalanced dopamine, I don’t care who gets hurt.

Semi-sane Ripley cares.

Way too much.

“Ripley?” she whines. “You with me?”

Licking my lips, I force moisture into my mouth. “Fine, I’ll figure it out. Now fuck off, Rae.”

She grins back. “Love you too, doll face.”

“Uh-huh.”

Flipping her off, I quickly scan the keycard that unlocks my bedroom door and escape into the cool comfort. Early January daylight barely penetrates the darkness inside.

I keep the curtains drawn over the barred window. The dark drapes rest on an anti-ligature rack, held up by magnets. I keep minimal personal effects around, but the folding photo frame depicting the last family trip with my parents rests at my bedside.

Safely hidden, my eyes burn, but I refuse to release the moisture swelling inside. Looking at that photograph, I can still remember when the social worker sat me down and told me my mum wasn’t coming home.

It was a hit and run. Dead on collision. I didn’t discover those details until years later when I was old enough to pry into her death. Dad had passed a little over a year earlier from heart failure. Faster than blinking, I became an orphan.

Don’t think, don’t feel.

That’s how to survive, Ripley.

I’ve lived by those words since my childhood. But part of me wonders how liberating it would be to let all the pain and grief I’ve been quelling since I stared at that social worker overwhelm me.

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