Page 19 of Psycho Devils: Aran's Story 2

Truly traumatic.

I shivered for dramatic effect and picked at my lip.

When I’d fallen asleep after Lothaire left, I’d passed out for over forty-eight hours and had woken up feeling like the living dead. I knew how much time had passed, because when I’d gotten up to pee, I’d pressed my face close to the clock on the wall so I could read the date and time.

It ticked at me aggressively.

I’d tapped my finger on the glass and ticked back.

Dr. Palmer would just love that shit. I imagined her pulling down her spectacles and asking me if I’d drawn in my journal this week while her face crinkled up with judgment.

I snorted remembering when I showed her the flip book that I’d spent hours creating. If you turned the pages quickly it showed a tree falling over and crushing a family of chipmunks.

Instead of applauding my impressive drawing skills, Dr. Palmer had asked me if I was trying to be institutionalized.

I missed her energy.

After I tapped at the clock for a few minutes, I dragged the sack of bones that I called a body to my bed and collapsed.

Things went downhill. Fast. Which was frankly impressive because I’d already thought I was at rock bottom.

The last twenty hours had been pure hell.

Limbs locked.

Chest crushed against my bed.

All I could do was smoke my pipe. Inhale enchanted drugs and exhale them until reality became a little less flat and a little more warped.

I lay like a zombie as the memories played. Blood rained around me. Dead eyes stared at me accusingly. Skin cold beneath my hands.

Horace gasped.

For a mostly powerless fae who could only create two small ice daggers, I’d killed many people.

What did you call a murderer who didn’t want to kill? A coward or a bad bitch? I couldn’t decide which.

My lungs ached from smoke inhalation.

My soul ached from killing.

My shoulders ached from carrying the weight of being the coolest person at the academy.

The longer I lay on top of my covers, the more tangible the images became. Crystal clear. Painted in saturated colors so it was impossible to look away.

Tears leaked out of Sari’s eyes.

Horace’s blood was neon red, pooling against his pale skin.

Tara stared at me with wide eyes. She was dead.

In the present, my crow pecked at my nose, I fingered his feathers, and the smoke was soft beneath my fingers.

“Why?” Horace asked as he gurgled beneath me choking on blood. “Why, cousin?”

I rolled out of bed.

Didn’t bother to catch myself.

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