Page 33 of Burn Like An Angel

Ripley didn’t come back.

The fucking disobedience.

Trembling with a feeling I can’t put a name to, I left the medical wing after growing tired of listening to the others’ fretting. Even the meathead himself, Lennox, seems worried about his so-called least favourite person.

They both wanted to join the search party, but neither would’ve been able to navigate the war zone I’ve encountered while looking for Ripley. After only a handle of days, the institute is unrecognisable.

I didn’t think I shocked easily. Watching patients physically fight over food, scratching eyes and pulling out clumps of hair is the least of what’s unfolding. We knew it was coming. They’re turning on each other.

Scanning my eyes over the crowded cafeteria, I peer through the gloom at various faces scattered all around. Patients shoutand threaten, arguing over whatever scraps of food from the kitchen are left.

Nothing.

She isn’t here.

“Woo!” A dirt-streaked blur goes screaming past me. “We’re free, bitches!”

Turning away from the cafeteria, I watch the girl stagger off, quickly deducing that she’s wasted. Alcohol is a less popular form of contraband—too easily spotted by staff. Now, along with raided nurse’s stations and riot fever, it’s fuelling the carnage all around me.

I already had to punch some delirious guy a few hours ago when he came at me with a chair leg, screeching at invisible voices. I have no clue who he thought I was, but I wasn’t hanging around to find out.

Sure, anarchy is fun. It’s a romantic idea. Then reality sets in, and the delirium isn’t so cute after all. The whole intoxicated, frat party atmosphere rife with explosive, unmedicated violence won’t last much longer.

I’d usually enjoy the chaos. It provides ample opportunity to blend into the shadows and stalk my next plaything. Oh, the fun I could have right now while no one is watching.

It’d be easy to find something soft and vulnerable to slice. A pure, untouched specimen, ripe for the taking. Someone who would cry and beg. Vocalise their pain in a sweet symphony of desperation.

I haven’t touched a soul since that night.

Whensheslept curled up in my arms.

Saucer-like, hazel eyes, brimming with tears. Tangled snarls of mousy-brown hair. Plump, perfectly proportioned lips, begging to be bitten. Her insults and protests turning into whimpers of submission.

My fantasies now have a face.

The woman I hate has become… What? Beyond fascination. Beyond obsession. Beyond everything I thought I knew and wanted from one of my targets. She’s no longer just a toy.

Ripley Bennet has drilled her way into my bone marrow, infiltrated my blood cells and set up shop like a parasitic infection. My interest in her felt different than this before. Intense but under control. She was a collection of cells trapped beneath my microscope.

When she snuggled up to my bare chest, pressing the tip of her nose into my skin, tickling me with each relaxed exhale… my entire existence shifted. It happened so fast, I didn’t see it coming.

I’ve never been touched like that—with gentle care and something akin to tenderness. In my experience, touch only brings pain. Humiliation. Degradation. I torture others to hold that agony at bay.

Without warning, my mind plummets into the black pit I never allow it to linger in for long. A place reserved for pathetic emotions. The weakness of a younger, smaller, more damaged version of the man I’ve become.

Walking faster, I head back in the direction of the medical wing, ignoring the way my lightly-trembling hand causes the flashlight’s beam to shake. The institute’s messy chaos is interwoven with lifelike memories exploding all around me like inkblots.

Mummy’s asleep, Xander.

Don’t wake her up. I’d hate to hurt her.

Revulsion writhes beneath my scar-striped skin at the voice accompanying my vivid flashbacks. I can still see the yellowing carpet adorned with a lumpy, striped mattress. The cracked, still functioning lamp lying on its side where I tried to fight back.

I always slept with that light on, terrified of what would happen in the darkness. It allowed me to stare at the newspapercutouts of the latest 90s computer model tacked on my bedroom wall.

I loved computers even back then. I’d stare at those clippings through it all. Every second, minute and hour. Every night. Dreaming of the possibilities that my fingertips touching a keyboard would bring.

Technology intrigued me. I dreamed that if I could find a way to make money, I’d be able to run away. Or erase myself like the elusive secret agents I saw in crappy spy movies. I would never fucking return.

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