Page 41 of Ravage

Dr. Elsher starts to open his mouth, his shiny perfect teeth near blinding me, but I cut him off, waving my hand around carelessly.

"Let me guess—am I going to be uncooperative as usual?" I mock, air quoting him.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by my change in attitude. Sure, the last time we met I gave it back to him before they took me to hell. But that was standing up for myself, proving I was more than the mental illness carved into my soul. This time, I'm proving that I'm strong—fearless. That I'm not going to let people walk all over me and treat me like I'm less than human because of my shitty upbringing.

I'm not going to accept that I deserved what I got because I never had a voice or the ability to take control of my own life.

"Interesting," he murmurs, but I can't help but feel it's a remark to himself rather than me.

I laugh dryly. "Are we going to pretend that my newfound attitude is a result of amedical breakthrough?" I scoff, referring to the torture I endured downstairs in the so-called name of science. "Another reason to pretend people like you are better than the patients here. Because if you truly believe that, then I'd ask for a refund on your tuition."

It falls silent for a few seconds, the two of us in a heated battle with our eyes. I refuse to look away, refuse to cower.

I wait for him to deny it, to feign innocence. But apparently, I've hit him when it hurts—his pride.

"I don't expect non-professionals to understand the significance of medical research," he starts, annoyed. "Best you don't try to speak about things you don't know."

"And people who have never suffered should not be a voice for those who have," I spit back. "Your textbooks might be able to list criteria to diagnose someone, but have you ever actually been through what any of us have? Do you understand on a physical and mental level what it is like to spend your life just surviving? You might understand the symptoms on paper but guess what? Every single person here is more qualified than youto understand theactualsymptoms. So, don't speak to me as if I don't know what I'm talking about. I've been through more in one week than you will in ten lifetimes."

There's a tension in the air lingering. An invisible cord between us, the two of us playing mental tug-of-war.

"It's because of me that people like you actually have a chance at healing," he says with superiority. "Without us, you'd be lost to your symptoms. You cannot think or behave rationally, which is why you all murdered people. Normal people don't kill others."

"Here's the thing,William," I reply casually, crossing my legs. "While a good psychiatrist might be able to argue that point, it's moot for you. Because you are neither good nor a doctor. The truth is the people who had their lives ended deserved it. And before you say they didn't or there were other avenues, that might be true—except for the fact that people likeyoufailed us. We were forced to regress back into animals, centuries behind where we should be, just to survive. In this day and age, it shouldn't be a case of 'kill or be killed'. But that's our reality. That's our story."

His eyes narrow on me, but I don't back down.

"I never wanted to kill my father," I state, noticing that my voice shakes slightly despite the unusual feeling of strength flowing through my veins. "I tried to take the other direction, choosing to end my own life to escape a lifetime of pain and torture. But while I never intended for him to be caught in the crossfire, I know, without a doubt, that if he didn't die that day and we had both survived, I'd be dead now. His hands would have been the reason I cease to exist. A parent should love and protect, but I didn't get that luxury. So why is it that I'm being punished for trying to escape hell? Why am I being punished forhisabuse?"

Pausing, I stand up straight, glaring down at him behind his desk.

"You can paint me as a monster all you like. In a way, I am. But for someone that took an oath to help people, you torture victims—the very ones you swore to save. So, if I'm a monster,Dr. Elsher, then what areyou?"

Without waiting for a reply, I head to the door, pulling it open. Immediately, I spot Damon, Grey, and Theo in the hallway, their eyes snapping to me as they stiffen with worry and anger. Looking back over my shoulder, I notice Dr. Elsher standing behind his desk now, glaring at me with loathing.

"Consider this my resignation from your sessions. Tell Whittingham to put me back with Dr. Smith. And if you're going to tell him we're the big, bad monsters in this place, then be sure to remind him that you all created us. It's our fucking turn now,Doctor. And unless you want us to ravage this fucking place to the ground, I'd remember just what we are capable of… with the right motivation."

Chapter 15

Avery

I manage to survive through the night.

As much as I hated being back in my own room alone, there was some solace in the fact that Grey was lurking somewhere in the dark outside my door.

But every little creak had me on edge, wondering if guards would swoop in at any second to take me back into the hands of Dr. West.

I was surprised that Grey didn't try to sneak into my room—almost hurt by the notion. But part of me suspects it was to make sure I got enough sleep and that no one would disturb me.

Before I know it, I'm sitting in Charmaine's class, pretending life is back to normal.

Ever since my session yesterday with Elsher, I keep waiting for it—retaliation, a punishment.

Anything, really.

But nothing has come.

Today just feels odd. To everyone else, it's a normal day. People come and go all the time in Lilydale—in lifeanddeath. So, no one batted an eye when Vivian and I suddenly appearedagain. At least not in front of me. Maybe because I'm constantly flanked by my own guard dogs, who glare at anyone who dares to step foot within a six-mile radius of me.

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