Page 21 of Absentia Mori

I tuck in her drawers and cabinets before bolting out of there. As I pass the stocky orderly at the door, I slip him a vial of my blood. Years of ingesting and breathing in poison have left our veins permanently laced with it. And it’s a small enough dose for someone as mundane as Weasel. He’ll get a temporary high before he throws it all up, but it’s not enough to kill him.

I race down the hall toward the cafeteria where I find Cook waiting for me at the back door to the kitchen—our usual time and meeting place. He hands me a brown paper bag, and inreturn, I tosshima vial too. The irony of bartering with my blood is not lost on me. But it’s how I survive.

I round another corner and run smack dab into Kitty. I purse my lips and brace myself. The waif-like apparition screams in my face. I take two steps forward and scream back. Her eyes widen as if we haven’t done this a hundred times before.

She tucks a white strand of her hair back behind her ear and whimpers, “Meow.”

“Good, Kitty.” I pat her on the head before she vanishes. I’m sure she had a real name once, but it’s long been forgotten inside these walls.

Fucking hell. I sometimes can’t believe how normal this has become. But I don’t want to get used to it. I want fresh air, open roads, and food that doesn’t taste like medicine.

Finally, I head to the gym, where I find the Terror Twins jumping up and down on the weight bench. I kneel down and offer them the bag. “Sweet treats for evil deeds?”

The two little blonde girls giggle as they barrel over, their eyes lighting up with delight when they discover the lollipops inside.

I give them a wink. “You know what to do.”

They nod and don’t waste any time peeling the wrappers off before popping the bright red suckers in their mouths. “No sleep,” they both chant in unison.

A wave of euphoria flutters through me. I can’t wait to hear our little freak scream.

I’m good at being the center of attention. But I’m even better at being a fly on the wall—two opposing ideas that have suited me well in the world I grew up in. When I really want something bad enough, sometimes I have to dim my own light in order to illuminate the path forward.

People have been underestimating me for years. When you spend most of your time dressing up in skimpy designer outfits and guzzling champagne like it’s water, people tend to count you out. But I pay attention. I observe and listen and keep mental notes. And I have the patience of a fucking lion, despite my pouty-girl antics. I’ve perfected the art of drama queen on the outside and stone-cold manipulator on the inside.

I see and hear things even when I’m not trying. I self-medicate with booze and drugs to try and drown out that noise. But it’s not easy to drown in shallow pools.

But here… it will ensure my survival.My escape.

It’s only been a week, and I’m already allowed to leave my room at my own will. I’m being observed but not obsessively watched. The only one I thought was going to be a problem is Gorman, but Mordecai, Fabien, and Raithe seem to have some kind of hold on him and the others. None of the orderlies have returned to my room in a few days. Not since the night Fabien kicked them out.

The night he carved his name into my thigh.

I run my fingers over the tattoo, wincing slightly. Moisture pools between my legs at the memory. I should be angry that he marked me. I can’t figure out why I’m not. Other than the fact that his plan backfired. I feel like his mark givesmemore power over him than the other way around.

Fucking psycho.

Oh, wait, that’s me. I’m the fucking psycho for having an orgasm while being cut open. But there was something different about his touch. It was dark and feral and electric. I came so fucking hard. And as much as I hate him—all three of them—I can’t help but crave more.

I brush my hair back into a low ponytail and stare at myself in the mirror. In the fluorescent light, my skin looks sallow. A wave of shame reaches up to choke me as I take note of the dark circles that I used to conceal with makeup. My blue-green eyes are more vibrant somehow without the thick coating of black mascara I usually wear. But I don’t look like myself. Or at least not the self I’ve spent so many years curating and perfecting.

I miss my fancy clothes and my perfume and my Balenciaga bag. They were my armor. My comfort. I stand here now, bare-faced and devoid of all my luxuries, feeling more vulnerable than ever. And I fucking hate it. I hate myself.

In here, I can’t hide behind my pretty things.

The lights flicker three times before going out, ending my episode of self-loathing. Fuck. This place is like a prison. It’s noteven ten p.m., and they’re making us go to bed. I never even used to leave my apartment at Tenebrose until then. I bet Maureen is fucking loving having the place all to herself. I wonder how many pieces of furniture she and her guys have desecrated. I actually don’t want to think about it since one of them is my cousin.Ugh. I’m thoroughly cringed out now.

I sigh and plop down on the bed. There’s a little bit of moonlight streaking in, so I’m not completely in the dark. I take off my pants and spread my legs to look at my new tattoo again. In the shadows, I can barely see it, but the F is prominent. I trace my fingers over the letters again, and it sparks a tingle in my core.

“Slut,” a voice hisses.

I freeze. What the fuck was that? My heart pounds as I wait to see if I’m imagining things. My gaze darts around the room. I think I see something move by the door, but it’s too dark to tell.

“Hello?” I whisper.

“Die, bitch.”

Fuck.

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