Page 30 of Burn Like An Angel

Adding to the destruction, patients have gone to town, smashing every available piece of furniture. I have to stop for a second to take in the sheer devastation. It gives me a sick thrill.

Windows shattered. Paperwork discarded. Computers broken. What looks like some kind of condiment from the cafeteria has been used to scrawl on the walls.

Chilled gooseflesh rises on my skin as my eyes follow the letters, spiky and rushed, seemingly written by any means necessary. An artefact left behind in the devastation for the world to read.

THE SYSTEM HAS FAILED US.

Staring at the words, the script screams the hard truth that nobody has ever dared to acknowledge. I want to trash anything left untouched in this false paradise. The emotion flooding my system isn’t anger. It’s pure rage, born of total powerlessness.

My attention strays to the entrance doors—somehow still intact but swinging in the spring breeze that comes from outside. The sound of voices and activity are carried in.

I look back at the words. Feel the rage. The defencelessness. Every debilitating second caught in this state-funded trap, protected by an uncaring world’s wealth and indifference. And I don’t want to fucking hide.

They can hate me.

But we share a common enemy.

Fists clenched, I slip between the swinging doors into the new dawn. The entrance to Harrowdean Manor is usually heavily guarded by security, but it currently stands unprotected.

I can still remember being frogmarched past the gates and up the winding, cobbled driveway to the manor. The view looking out to the surrounding woodland has drastically changed since then.

On all sides, the same imposing cloak of juniper and birch trees remain as silent sentries. I can see the wrought-iron gates in the distance, embellished with the institute’s crest.

“Get them in a line!”

Rick’s voice booms over the hum of patients swarming all around me. A crowd has gathered to watch the unfolding circus.

“On your fucking knees!”

One by one, a group of eight or nine guards are being roughly shoved onto their naked knees. Daylight illuminates their exhausted faces, bruised and dirt-streaked, others bloodied.

They’ve all been stripped, mud covering their shivering bodies. I quickly catalogue their terrified expressions, making a mental list of who isn’t here. Apparently, not all the guards were present when the institute fell.

Each one is chained to the next using interconnected handcuffs, forming one linked line of humiliation. Positioned execution-style.

Behind them, Rick prowls up and down, examining his handiwork. Beyond the barricaded entrance, cameras flash on repeat. Reporters are baying for blood behind the iron bars holding them back.

Harrowdean’s gates are bolted shut from our side, keeping their desperation at bay. The chains may as well be flimsy cobwebs for all they matter, though. They won’t keep us safe for long.

The hostages are lined up for their photoshoot, imprisoned like livestock and posed for the country’s media to capture. Riots end fast without leverage, and Rick was quick to secure his. The guards.

“We have a message for the world.” Rick’s voice carries through the suddenly still air. “You don’t know our faces. You don’t know our names. That’s because to you… we don’t exist.”

Microphones are thrust through the bars to capture his shouts. For every beady eye latched on to us, my stomach twists into a tighter knot. They aren’t here out of concern. Our rebellion is nothing more than clickbait for them to utilise.

“And that’s exactly how Incendia Corporation sees us!” Rick shouts angrily. “As commodities. Specimens. Fuel for their sick experiments.”

Reaching out a hand to Patient Three who stands nearby, my heart convulses at the sight of the gun Rick took from Harrison in the Z wing. Raising the weapon, he aims it at the back of the first guard’s head.

“What if we treat you like commodities too?” Rick screams. “What if you’re the specimens this time? Will you remember our names then? Does that grant us the right to exist?”

I watch the guard’s shoulders shake with petrified sobs. It’s hard not to feel a shred of sympathy, but I quickly crush it. His sliced-up, bare chest is on display, a miasma of lurid bruises stark against his flesh.

Humiliated and hurt.

Just like us.

Scanning the crowd watching Rick’s performance, I realise what’s been gnawing at the back of my mind. What’s missing from this picture is the reinforcements. Other guards. Elon. Bancroft. His goons.

---