Page 20 of Ethereally Tainted

“I-I need to go,” I stammer out before running toward the door from where I came.

Despite the others shouting in my direction, no one joins me, and I am left to carry on by myself, just as I anticipated. As soon as I step through the doors and am about to turn left into another corridor, I am tackled by a sudden force. An intense pain stabs at my rib cage, and a trail of abrasions stings my palms from the jagged floor.

“What the fuck?” I scream and thrash against the person’s hold on me.

The person behind me presses my chin against the ground, just like a guard did to that girl earlier, and my arms are bent in an uncomfortable position behind my back.

“You shouldn’t have tried to escape.”

“I didn’t fucking try to do that!”

Despite holding me in a vile-like grip and not saying a word, he lifts me from the floor with gentle movements as if this is meant to make up for his tackling, and then he leads me through a corridor that looks exactly like the one in wing three where my supposed room is. I try to wiggle out of his grip, but it only results in him clutching me firmer until we reach a door. Before I can read the sign outside, I am abruptly shoved into the room.

“She was causing trouble.”

The man behind the desk is wearing a suit, a different color than the day before, and his arms are raised in a relaxing manner. He snaps his fingers together and stares at me with a disappointed look.

“Thank you, Ray.”

The guard nods curtly before shooting me an apologetic look as he walks out the door.

“Sit,” Mr. Ricci demands, pointing his hand at the chair before his desk.

His presence is just as intimidating as it was in the darkness, and my throat becomes dry. His face is a mask of displeasure, lips pursed in a thin line, and brows knit together.

After being released from the guard’s iron grip, I gingerly rub my aching wrists and see that I’m more disheveled than anticipated. The blood from before has dried into my skin, leaving a stinging pain, and I’m certain the guard got bloodied because of me. I feel the weight of Mr. Ricci’s gaze searing into my wrist, conveying his disdain without a word, silently judging me.

“Looks like we need to take that to the medical room.”

His voice is anything but worried, almost as if he is amused, and my heart beats rapidly in my chest.

I take a deep breath, and my voice comes out in a shaky stutter. “What is this place?”

My face is gritted with frustration, having had enough of their bullshit and misinformation.

“I told you. Dankworth Institute.”

“It’s not a hospital, though, is it?” My tone makes the suspicion more than apparent, causing him to raise his eyebrows.

His hair is just as slicked back as yesterday, and it looks like he used the entire can of hair gel to get it in place. It looks too greasy. I sit in the black leather armchair, and the cold, smooth material clings to my arms. Upon taking my seat, I slowly survey the area around me. The office is sizable and imposing, with dark furnishings that create an atmosphere of solemnity compared to the rest of the hospital. It looks like this is his personal approach to things, his own style.

To his rear is a glass-enclosed cupboard where he has carefully organized his books and journals, each labeled with a unique identifier. I then notice that all the journal binders are labeled with the room numbers, indicating that he refers to us by numbers and not our names.

Mr. Ricci shuffles through his papers, the sound of paper rustling filling the room, before adjusting his round glasses that sit too low on his nose. His serious expression is highlighted against the dark brown hue of the desk, as he rests his elbows against it.

Leaning back in my chair, I try to calm my tremors, but my wrist itches from dried blood. Although the wound looks serious, it doesn’t cause too much pain, but his refusal to take me to the medical room makes me wonder if this is a hospital.

“I see you are causing trouble on your first day here.” As he speaks, he props his chin up, showing authority in the way he conducts himself.

“I wasn’t trying to escape.” Although I try to sound as nice as possible, it comes out in a harsh breath.

“Mr. Walter says otherwise.”

At first, confusion strike me until I realize the Walter guy was the guard from earlier.

“Well, he’s wrong.” I cross my arms over my chest, ignoring the sting in my hand.

“I don’t believe he is.”

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