Page 28 of Wicked Little Nightmare

Without waiting for a response, I stepped forward, crunching broken ceramic under my boots. My fingers trailed along the countertop, leaving trails in the dust. Each step brought back flashes of my past – the strict mealtimes, the harsh voices, the constant fear.

"This way," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

I moved through the building, Cam's presence a comforting shadow behind me. My eyes darted to each room we passed, memories assaulting me with every familiar space.

The common room, where we'd gather for "group therapy" that was more like psychological warfare. The small day infirmary, where I'd hidden more than once, faking illness to escape the day's torments. The showers, where... I shuddered, pushing that particular memory away.

"You okay?" Cam's voice cut through my thoughts.

I paused, my hand resting on a door frame. "Define 'okay,'" I laughed bitterly. "I'm in the place that haunted my nightmares for years. But sure, I'm okay."

Cam's hand found the small of my back before tangling in my hair. "Do you need some pain?"

"Yes,” I whimpered as he pulled my hair and crushed his lips on mine, biting my bottom lip until it bled, the metallic taste flooding my senses and pushing out the fear.

He pulled off me and slapped my ass so hard I was gonna bruise. “Thank you.” I said with a smile, wiping the blood from my chin.

“I got you, baby girl.”

I pressed on, each step feeling lighter. Cam always knew what I needed. Knew that pain was the barrier with which I protected my heart. The fragmented pieces of my soul. I led the way down the long hallway, barely sparing a glance at each room as we passed.

"Almost there," I muttered, more to myself than to Cam. "Just a little further."

I stopped at the end of the hall, my hand hovering over a painfully familiar door handle. My throat constricted, words barely escaping in a whisper. "This... this was my room."

Cam's eyes flickered with understanding, a rare softness crossing his features. Without a word, he reached past me and pushed the door open.

The creak of rusted hinges felt like a scream in the silence. I stepped inside, my legs trembling beneath me. The room was atime capsule, preserved in all its miserable glory. My old bed was pushed against the wall on the left, still neatly made as if waiting for my return. A wave of nausea hit me as I remembered the nights spent curled up there, trying to muffle my sobs.

"Fuck," I breathed, my eyes drawn to a half-torn picture still clinging to the wall. It was Cam, younger and somehow more innocent, his cocky grin preserved in faded ink. I'd stolen that photo from our social worker's file, my own little act of rebellion.

"Well, well," Cam drawled, his eyes fixed on the picture. "Looks like I've always been irresistible."

I snorted, grateful for the moment of levity. "Don't flatter yourself, Axley. I just needed something to aim darts at."

But even as I joked, my mind raced. This room held so many secrets, so much pain. Across from me was Lydia’s bed. She’d been my roommate for a year… until she told me that Father Christopher had raped her and that something terrible was going to happen. I’d brushed it off, but then she just disappeared, replaced by some other chick.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, my fingers trembling as I reached for the small set of drawers beside it. The wood was warped, sticky with age, but it gave way with a groan. Inside, a jumble of papers caught my eye. My heart clenched as I pulled them out, recognizing letters I’d written to Cam, but could never send.

"You good?"

I nodded, but my voice betrayed me, cracking as I spoke. "Yeah, I'm... I'm fine."

It was a lie, and we both knew it. The weight of the memories pressed down on me, threatening to suffocate. I took a shaky breath, steeling myself.

"Lydia," I began, my eyes fixed on the bed across the way. "My roommate. God, Cam, the things she told me that night... things that were so horrific, I thought she was lying. Things I think…"

I could feel Cam's intense gaze on me as I recounted the horrors Lydia had confided. The words spilled out, a torrent of dark secrets and unimaginable cruelty. As I spoke, I felt that familiar detachment creeping in, the psychopathic chill that usually kept me safe from emotions. But here, in this room, surrounded by the ghosts of my past, even that shield was cracking.

"She was so scared," I whispered, my fingers tracing my words on the paper. "And I... I couldn't protect her."

My voice faltered, the memory of Lydia's disappearance hitting me hard. "And then she was just... gone. Like she'd never existed."

I looked up at Cam, my eyes stinging. "Sister Anne, that sanctimonious bitch, she looked me right in the eye and said there had never been a Lydia here. Can you believe that? Told me I was confused, that I'd always been with Emma in this room."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips, tinged with a hint of the madness I usually kept locked away. "For a whole year, I thought maybe I'd imagined her. That I'd finally cracked and made up a whole person. I actually started to believe them."

I stood abruptly; my legs shaky but propelling me towards Lydia's old bed. My hands skimmed over the surface, searching desperately for any trace of my lost friend. The mattress was lumpy, springs poking through in places, but I didn't care. I had to find something, anything. As I searched, a broken spring cut into my hand as it caught on my skin. I hardly noticed the blood I was smearing all over as I kept looking.

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