Page 3 of Lethal
Just as they’re dragging Wren out the door, he turns his head and whisper-shouts to me, “Ring around your silence… A pocket full of screams… we’re coming for you, dolly... you’re already ours to eat.”
Once I can no longer see either of them in the gray-painted hallway, I close my door, releasing the pent-up breath that is tightening my chest, and making breathing difficult. My hands tremble, as I lift them to my face and hair, trying to reassure myself that I’m fine. That, despite the theatrics, nothing had truly happened.
“Cat, please come and save me! They’re hurting me, Cat, please!”A female voice whispers in my mind, causing my body to tremble, and pain to lance my chest.
That was close, closer than the others had ever gotten.Fuck.My notebook catches my eye on the floor, its pages open and forgotten. I move toward it, bending down to pick it up, and my peripheral vision catches the red drops of blood, now forgotten on the side of Wren’s chair. My fingers reach out and touch it, rubbing it between my digits, before I slip them inside of my mouth, licking off the rich coppery taste.
I’m going to find the truth in them, all their secrets, the ones they’ve never told to anyone. Even if I have to dig through every inch of their madness to get there. Even if I have to become part of it. I need their answers to use as leverage, to find the truth of what happened here all those months ago.
My eyes land on the words I wrote on the page, before I lost control of the situation.
Self-Aware. Lying. Games.
The orderlies roughly drag me down the hallway, passing locked patient rooms filled with screaming voices. My feet drag along the grimy, cracked tile floor behind my limp body. It’s useless to struggle against their manhandling, since it won’t make them go any easier on me. We’re not human to them, just meaningless, broken objects that have to be shuttled from one space to the other, so that they can collect their measly paychecks. All of us are trapped in this wretched place thatprofesses to want to help us, but the truth is, they hate the mentally ill.
I lift my heavy head, from where it has been dangling between my shoulder blades, feeling the exhaustion that constantly permeates me settle once more, like a weighted blanket I can’t rid myself of. My eyes briefly connect with my brother’s tense, broad back, confirming that he’s still ahead of me between his own batch of desensitized gorillas, and that he’s not bothering to give them any reaction. No, they would enjoy any excuse to beat on us, and put us in isolation, away from each other. They wouldn’t dare to attempt to separate us permanently now. Not after two years here, they know what’s happened when they’ve tried in the past in this monstrous place.Bloodshed. Chaos. Death.
A cackle escapes me at the thought.“A monstrous place, filled with monsters...”I mumble, my words beginning to slur, with all the voices demanding to be heard inside my head. I don’t know why I find that thought so amusing, but I catch the uneasy glance from the orderly holding me tightly on the right, and it almost makes it worth the bruises the fucker is leaving on my biceps with his sausage fingers.Fuck,now my mouth is watering, with thoughts of fire-roasted pork sausages, drenched in spicy mustard, and my stomach growls loudly, echoing off the otherwise deserted walls. How long has it been since I had a tasty snack of flesh and bone?
Too long, we crave it,the teenage boy whines inside my head.
We need to eat, Wren, we’re starving!The young woman calls.
“I know, I know, I’ll try to take a bite,” I moan, as my head spins. We reach our room, the black numbers reminding me that once Bash and I were free, now we’re just the inhabitants of room two hundred and seven. The door is wide open, and as Ifinally stumble to my feet, Bash’s orderlies are releasing his legs, neck, and waist, from the chains, but are not careless enough to release his arms from behind his back. A grin crosses my chapped lips at the memory of why that is. I wonder if that is now in our charts, or has become folklore among the staff here at Wellard.
You did massacre that poor guard your first month here, when he made that mistake. It was so satisfying to pluck his eyeballs out with our fingers, and eat them, while the other orderlies and guards watched in stupefied horror,the clown’s sing-song voice replies. Yes, yes, it was. What a shame they won’t allow me a repeat of that. It was a tasty treat, one I haven’t had since, and the food here is so tasteless and rotten.
My gorillas follow suit, releasing their hold on me and thrusting me to my knees, while they go through the same process of relinquishing my extremities. Blood immediately flows back into them, because the fuckers always put them so tight. The pins and needles make me groan in discomfort, but after feeling nothing but numbness all the time, with the meds they force down my throat, it’s good to feel anything at all. I wonder, if I just leaned forward, could I reach this asshole’s ear and have a little taste of it? Just a little nibble to satisfy my curiosity, and my cravings. Cravings that have been left unsatisfied, thanks to the pretty doctor. “Wren,” Bash calls my name in a sharp bark, and shakes his head once in warning, as if he can read my thoughts.Fucking killjoy, always taking away my fun.
Finally, the orderlies leave the room, and the door shuts with a loud bang, before the small metal window built into the door slides open. I make my way over to it, bending my knees to put my cuffed arms within their reach, so they can release me from the restraints. The pain, from my cuffs having dug into my wrists, flares, and I pull them forward, examining the messI’ve made. Red, angry marks, puckered and swelling, greet my eyes, as blood seeps from their seams.What a shame it isn’t the Doctor’s blood coating our skin.I raise my wrists to my lips, licking them clean, and savoring the thick iron taste that invades my mouth.God, I miss the taste of fresh blood.
I’m faintly aware of Bash moving around and having his restraints removed, his broody, menacing form just adding to my agitation. Every time we have one of these sessions withher,I become increasingly unsettled. The voices, which were mere murmurs for months, have become loud and incessant, not allowing me a moment of peace, even with all the drugs they force on me.You don’t want us to be quiet, Wren. You hate to be alone,an old feminine voice calls.
I make my way to my lumpy bed, my eyes surveying my meager belongings, to ensure no one touched anything while we were out of the room. I wouldn’t put anything past these assholes running the asylum. There have been instances in the past, where items from notorious patients’ rooms have been stolen, and subsequently appeared on the internet for sale. One of my charcoal drawings fetched a large amount, to my understanding, although I didn’t see a penny of it. My money’s on the guards, but Bash says it could be anyone.
Our fans appreciated our work. It’s unfortunate that they never had the chance to collect our true masterpieces,the stern male voice states. An image of my greatest life’s work flashes through my mind, my drawings, which were done in the blood and skin of my victims, as a substrate, that the FBI assholes took away from me. I miss being able to admire them, to reminisce on those who inspired the work. I wonder where they are now? I hope, one day, the public will get to enjoy them, probably only after I’m long gone.
You’ll be hailed as one of the greatest artists of your time, you’ll see,one of the younger voices claims.
No, he won’t. They will never allow those atrocities to be seen. They’ve probably destroyed them all,the angry, stern female voice answers.
My body begins to rock itself back and forth on the surface of my shitty mattress, the voices arguing amongst themselves, and making it impossible to shut them out. It’s so loud that I slam the palms of my hands against my ears over and over, attempting to silence them. “It doesn’t matter... doesn’t matter... doesn’t matter.”
Bash’s dark, menacing shadow looms over me, depriving me of the meager light within our room. His hand flies out and strikes my cheek with a harsh slap. The pain, and sharp sound, forces the voices to back away, and allow me some space. “Don’t succumb to them. You’re stronger than they are, Wren,” he growls, as he moves over to his own bed and lies down.
I raise my head and stare at my brother. Something is going on with him; he’s even more sullen than usual.
“You like her, don’t you, Bash?” I question, the heat from my cheek a welcome relief. Bash never turns in my direction, but I don’t miss the tightening of his jaw.
“Get some rest, Wren. It will all be alright, I promise, brother.”
Alright? What the fuck is he talking about?Nothing has been alright since we got caught, and dragged to this horrible, wretched place. This prison with walls that seem to sweat, and breathe, in menacing silence, when the lights go out. With its peeling, paint-like scabbed skin, and the despair and misery of its inhabitants, so thick and crushing that you can barely breathe. Something deep inside the ancient, decrepit pipes coughs wetly every few minutes, and radiates through the plaster, as if the building is clearing its throat, before whispering dark secrets to those who still listen.
I listen. My voices listen. Bash doesn’t. Not anymore. The voices have gone silent for him, and that worries me. My brother has spent all our lives protecting me, but who will protect him?He doesn’t need protection. He’s not weak like you are. You are his burden to bear, and he would be free if it weren’t for you,the red-mouthed clown snarls.
No, it’s not true, I’m not a burden, I’m his partner in crime. It’s the two of us against the world. No one can ever break us apart. I begin to hum a tune that I used to hear at the fair under my breath, trying my best to drown out the sound of the voices, listing all my faults and misdeeds, of which there are many. My bed is cold, itchy, and uncomfortable, the springs digging into my lower back. I shut my eyes, but know that sleep will not be forthcoming. I don’t sleep much, at least not without nightmares. The past crawls in and holds me captive when I’m less alert. Instead, I decide to focus on our session, replaying in my mind every word and move my pretty porcelain doll made. Every twitch of her beautiful lips, and the way her hair fell like a silk curtain around her face. I can’t get enough of her, not since she startedsaying my namelike that.
My pretty, broken porcelain doll.The name I’ve given her is like thick, sweet-scented honey, laced with rusted nails. She speaks with measured control, but her throat betrays her. The way her pulse beats rapidly, like a hummingbird, trapped and just waiting for me to free it, with a blade. I watch her lips when she speaks, wanting desperately to taste them.
