Page 11 of Devoured
“Of course. Ms. Mitchell.”She made a small note on her clipboard. “Let’s get you inside and out of this weather.”
I nodded and followed her.
The entrance hall was massive—old stone, high ceilings the lights couldn’t quite reach. Our footsteps echoed wrong, like the sound was bouncing off more walls than should be there. The yellow bulbs in the antique fixtures gave everything a sickly hue. Made the shadows look thick.
A staircase curved up to the second floor. The stone railing was carved with hands—reaching, grasping, holding things. I tried not to look too closely, but my eyes kept catching on them. They looked like they moved when you weren’t watching.
Once the guards removed my restraints and departed, Dr. Alan’s smile widened. “I know this must be overwhelming, but I assure you, we’re here to help.”
Her voice echoed strangely, bouncing back distorted.
Here to help… help… help…
A tall, thin nurse emerged from a side corridor. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Gray hair pulled into a severe bun. Her fingers were long and pale, almost translucent beneath the lights. A permanent scowl had etched deep lines around her mouth. She looked to be in her late fifties. Perhaps she was younger, but she looked the kind of woman who’d been worn down by years of hard shifts.
“This is Nurse Sela,”Dr. Alan explained. “She’ll handle your intake.”
“This way,”Nurse Sela ordered, pulling a ballpoint pen from her pocket. She clicked it. Unclicked it. Click. Unclick. The sound followed us down the hall like a metallic heartbeat.
We passed through double doors marked INTAKE. The temperature dropped instantly. The air smelled of bleach and something bitter that burned my nostrils.
Click. Unclick. Click. Unclick.
“Could you not do that?”I asked, trying to keep my voice level.
She looked at me over her wire-rimmed glasses, and for the first time, her mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile on someone else’s face. On hers, it looked like a wound.
“Why should I listen to you?”A dry, mirthless chuckle escaped her throat. “You’re the patient. I’m the nurse. You don’t make requests here.”
She clicked the pen one more time, deliberately slow, then clipped it to her clipboard with a sharp snap.
“Strip,”she said, pulling on latex gloves. “Everything off.”
I froze, arms wrapped around myself. The room was cold—cold enough that I could see my breath.
“Don’t be modest,”she huffed. “I’ve seen it all before. We need to document any self-harm or injuries.”
Slowly, I peeled off the soaked transport clothes. The jumpsuit clung to my skin. My undergarments were nearly transparent from the rain. The air bit at my damp skin, raising goosebumps everywhere. I kept my arms at my sides—not from confidence, just exhaustion.
Her gaze moved over me with complete detachment. Then she saw my wrist.
“Fresh cuts,”she noted, grabbing my arm and turning it toward the light. The scars from last week were still pink and raised. “How recent?”
“Two months ago. Maybe.”
“In County?”Her tone was bitter. Or maybe she was. She looked like someone who’d been bitter her whole life.
“Yes.”
She scribbled furiously. “Suicide attempt?”
“The psychiatrist called it a trauma response.”I told her.
“I’m asking you. Not the psychiatrist.”She looked at me with an expression that said, don’t bullshit with me.
I met her eyes. “I wanted it to stop.”
“It?”She asked.
